


A Taste of Honey

by PAPERSK1N



Series: A Taste of Honey [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1950s, 1960s, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Canonical Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, McLennon, Multi, Non-Explicit Sexual Content, Period Typical Attitudes, Ringo and the others will appear at some point further on i promise, Rock and Roll, Teddy boy John, Teenage Drama, The Beatles - Freeform, The Quarrymen - Freeform, pre-hamburg years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-06-22 19:18:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15588894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PAPERSK1N/pseuds/PAPERSK1N
Summary: John is an eighteen year-old fresh faced teddy-boy Alpha with a Devil-may-care attitude and a taste for fast paced Rock-and-Roll music. Making art is all he's ever really given a toss about, and, up until the day of the Woolton Summer Fete, it's the only thing that makes any kind of sense, to him.On July 6th, John meets Paul. And everything in his world starts to simultaneously make a lot more, and a lot less fuckin’ sense.





	1. A Fete, a Drink and a Presentation of status

 

 

It’s almost strange, how John can remember the day they first met in such stunning, vivid technicolour, right down to the stupid, unimportant little details like the colour of the carnation Paul wore on his jacket (red) or the extra sugar Mimi put in his tea to shake the sleep out of him (two and a half spoonful’s). It’s a testament to his embarassing infatuation, really, because up until the day of the Woolton fete, John could barely bother remembering what he’d had for breakfast when sober, let alone after a beer or two. But for this day, even with him and the rest of the lads as drunk as a cheating sailors, detail sticks in his memory like a strange and twisted dream; and, try as he might, he can’t forget it. He never will.

 

Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that he was still just a fresh-faced baby alpha, having only presented seven or so months before the day that changed his life. This was his first summer as a _real man_ , sweet and sour scents of his peers mingling in with the taste of hot air, cheap beers and cigarette smoke, no longer stale and trapped in the confines of dark rooms and dusty pubs. Summer, even in Liverpool, was an excuse for both the youth and the aged to flock out in force, enjoying the rare British sunshine together. John was actually excited (although, he was far too cool to ever let his excitement actually _show_ around the others) because it was the latest in a string of _real, paid_ gigs he was doing with his little band of skiffle racket, and, for once, it was starting to feel as if things were actually _coming together_.

 

He wasn’t the only Alpha in his group, but he was certainly the pack leader when it came to _The Quarrymen_ without question. John was the one who pulled the birds on nights out. John was the one handing off the dowdy friends to his bandmates whilst he chased after the premium skirt; the pretty omega girls and even the occasional beta one, if he fancied something easy-going and unattached. His appetite had only increased tenfold since presenting, but his tastes had certainly refined. Before, John was ready to shag any old bird as long as she had a pulse and a pair of tits, but now, in his adolescence, he was free to be a little more picky: blonde, slim, Omega. Any red-blooded Alpha’s usual taste.

 

And that was John’s taste. Normal. _Traditional_.

 

(and then he fucking met _Paul_ -)

 

Ivan was a cheeky little lout, sometimes showing his face around town within their social crowd, but usually he kept to himself and his stuffy grammar-school-chums. Still, he’d been prattling on about a mate of his who wasn’t half bad on the old strummer for weeks now, and at some point, John vaguely remembered agreeing to meet the squirt after their set.

 

He was tipsy after necking a few drinks to settle his nerves before they took the stage and he was still feeling the adrenaline high of a successful concert, laughing raucously with the lads, slapping each other on the backs and talking excitedly in the church hall about the half-decent girls they’d spotted smiling at them from within the crowd. John had just lit a fresh cigarette when they heard the church door creaking open, and he groaned, waiting for lovely old _Mrs Twain_ to start having a go at them for smoking in the _Holy House_ \- but when he turned to face the doorway, he was instead met with a very different face.

 

Ivan walked in first, greeting the band casually with his own ciggie waved around between his fingers, but John was hardly paying him any mind. No- John’s attention was fixed on the _kid_ following him in, guitar slung across his back, jet black hair coiffed up above his perfectly arched eyebrows, framing pretty hazel-coloured eyes the size and shape of dinner plates. His nose was slim and rounded like a little button at the tip, lips small but pump, arched in a lovely little cupid’s bow.

 

But seeing him wasn’t enough. John’s instincts kicked in just as quickly as his interest was piqued by the boys strangely _pretty,_ effeminate face, and he sniffed the air without so much as a conscious thought, hoping to catch a whiff of something equally as sweet. He couldn’t pick up anything until the boy moved close enough, reaching out a hand to shake, and although there was something distantly sugary- the boys scent was almost entirely bland, hardly even detectable.

 

Unpresented. Obviously. The kid introduced himself as Paul in a weirdly smooth, almost musical voice, dripping in confidence and John regained his composure long enough to return the favour. Still, he was frowning, ignoring Ivan’s babbling about his mate _Paul_ from school. He couldn’t have been older than fifteen, being unpresented, but he was slight and pretty and despite his usual tastes, John _liked_ him. John liked Paul the way he liked pretty blonde Omega birds- but that didn’t make any sense. Paul was a _lad_ \- and lads didn’t become Omegas- not ‘round these parts.

 

It wasn’t that male Omega’s didn’t _exist_. John hadn’t been a totally useless gobshite in school (although he was, according to his school reports, a _useless_ little gobshite) and he had half-listened during those dreary health and status classes. Male Omega’s and Female Alpha’s existed, but the gene was rare, and not often passed down. In a town like _Liverpool_ , where people clung to their so-called ‘traditional’ morals tighter than his mam did to a glass of red wine, it was more or less _impossible_. Male Alpha / Female Omega couples dominated the local population. That was just the way things were. This was the way he’d been brought up to believe in as _right_.

 

John was confused. He’d never looked at any other boy in _that way_ before, and although Paul was unpresented, he was almost certain he wasn’t a potential Omega. He was confident as anything, more than sure of himself as he made a crass joke about John’s tendency to duff up the lyrics on stage. He didn’t even seem to care about being the only unpresented kid surrounded by gruff, teddy boy Alpha’s and their little beta gang, smirking at John and Pete as they stepped forwards, the clear leaders, and nodded for Paul to play something.

 

“You’re holding the guitar upside down.” Pete scoffed, but Paul didn’t flinch. He just smiled, adjusting his fingers on the frets, and strummed a perfect _A_.

 

“I’m left handed. Trust me. Works just the same if you know what you’re doing. Any requests?”

 

“Play twenty-flight Rock, Paul!” Ivan said, and John was already impressed. Twenty-flight rock wasn’t exactly an _easy_ song to play, but Paul didn’t blink. He wasn’t intimidated by the request, not by a long-shot. He adjusted his fingers across the frets and looked up to John with an easy-going, confident smile, before humming the opening bars that John had heard himself only a thousand times before.

 

Okay, so Paul was _pretty good_. Better than John even. It only took half a minute of the song for John to be completely taken with the kid. He couldn’t help it- he wasn’t a queer but… well… Paul looked like E _lvis_. He looked like _fucking_ _Elvis_ , and he could play guitar better than anyone else John had ever heard, even if he did hold it upside down! Of course he was going to offer him a spot in the band. Of course he was hurt when Paul rebuffed him, shrugging and mumbling that he’d _think about it_ , maybe, before wandering back out of the church building in search of some girl he’d seen.

 

 _Think about it_ , John was outraged, and ranted about it to Pete for days on end. _Think about it-_ he was doing the puppy-faced little prick a _favour_! As if anyone with an ounce of self-respect would want some cheeky little unpresented kid in a _rock-n-roll band_. The sheer size of the bollocks on Paul shocked him to the core! Maybe John had been wrong. Maybe he _was_ an Alpha in the making - albeit a bit of a pretty-faced one.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite his outrage at Paul’s cocksure attitude and the way his silly, girly, features made him feel- John was happy when he did eventually agree to join the band. As Len had said: he’d much rather have the kid in their band than anyone else’s, especially if they wanted to be the best band on Merseyside. Unlike the rest of the lads, Paul always showed up to practice, was habitually on time and actually took the whole thing _seriously_ \- he taught John proper guitar chords rather than the muck-up mix of banjo notes his mother had given him and he let John buy him fish & chips after practice on a Friday night, even though he always pretended that his mouth wasn’t watering and his stomach wasn’t growling every time they walked past because he was _just so_ fucking polite, respectfulness all but beaten into him by his stuffy old well-meaning dad.

 

Paul didn’t have a mam, so his dad whinged and nagged and scolded enough for both parents. John could see why. He’d probably be the same if he had a kid who looked the way Paul looked, sounded the way Paul did. Especially with the likes of John sniffing around him, taking him under his leather-draped wing.

 

John certainly didn’t hate Jim McCartney- he was actually a half-decent bloke most of the time and wasn’t so bad on the old piano, but clearly he didn’t approve of Paul’s new (in his opinion, at least) tough-as-nails, teddy-boy, Alpha best mate. John couldn’t really blame him either- he’s the one who gave Paul his first cig and laughed when he choked on the smoke. He was the one took Paul out to the club and got him drunk out of his skull for the first time in his life, watching amusedly as his new little best-mate puked his guts and most of his dinner out into the street. He half expected the kid to cry- John had cried _buckets_ the first time the sharp burn of alcohol tinged in his throat before clawing it’s sordid way out of his gut, leaving him on his knees at the dirty club toilets for hours- but Paul was as composed as ever, _Mr P.R,_   _laughing_ even, more than grateful when John dragged him to his feet and shoved a cup of water down his gob, before patting him on the back and congratulating him for becoming a man.

 

It took him a few months, but soon, John realised that he actually spent more time with Paul than he did any of his other mates, even _Stu_ and the cool art-college lads he’d fallen in with. He spent more time trying to make this weedy little unpresented fucker smile than he did actually chasing skirt, and that _wasn’t on_ \- not if he wanted his lady-killing reputation to remain intact.

 

It was actually causing more problems in his personal life than John cared to admit.

 

His latest semi-steady girlfriend, a soft but loyal little Omega named Cynthia from art-college had moaned and wailed and cried, pounding her little fists against his chest, saying he cared more about doting on Paul than he did making _her_ happy, being _her Alpha_ and- she did have a point, but John was pretty sure she was just itching for a bite, and he really didn’t fancy settling down at seventeen. It wasn’t Cynthia’s fault- she was lovely and beautiful and she took good care of him, but John wasn’t ready for his life just to be _over_ , wedded and bedded with a pup or two on the way. No- he couldn’t- not with the band and the possibility of touring one day and…

 

…well, he supposed Paul did come into it.

 

So maybe he liked Paul, a little bit. But that didn’t mean _anything_ \- that wouldn’t _work_ , because Paul was a _bloke_. John had met his neutral, non-confrontational Beta father and he was sure Paul would follow suit. As Paul’s birthday creeped closer, it was clear- he had all the tell-tale traits of a beta: peaceful and calm and thoughtful and clever. Paul wasn’t driven by emotion- wasn’t propelled by _rage_ like John was. Paul was the one dragging John away from bar fights, easily smoothing things over with the girls that John frightened when he came on too strong, flirting his way into a little action in the back alley behind the club.

 

Paul was a beta, John knew that for certain. And that’s what made it wrong. He _still_ liked Paul, despite all of it. At night, when he should’ve been tucked up in bed, dreaming about knotting lovely Cyn, filling her belly with a litter of roman-nosed, squinty-eyed pups just as lawless as himself like a normal, _decent_ , lad- he was dreaming of Paul’s stupid, lovely doe-eyes and his pale, lithe hands tickling guitar strings and his lilting little _queer_ fucking laugh and worst of all, it turned him on more than any regular shagging-fantasy or naughty magazine ever had.

 

John did his best not to think about it at all, but it was hard to ignore when he had Paul’s arms wrapped around his shoulders, carrying the not-so-squeaky-clean runt on his back after a particularly legless night down at the pub, just the two of them against the world, wandering through the dark and silent streets of _Merseyside_.

 

This was what mates did, _right_? John was just being a _good mate_ , carrying his _good mate Paul_ down the street because he was too drunk to walk any further. What else was there to do?

 

It was twenty minutes or so of silent pacing down the empty streets before Paul opened his mouth, words slurred and breath beer-tinged, tickling against John’s cheek.

 

“You’re…” he paused, to hiccup loudly, and John tried not to find it hopelessly adorable. “You’re my favourite Alpha, Johnny.”

 

John bit his lip _hard_ , trying to ignore just how _satisfied_ he felt with those words tumbling from Paul’s pretty lips.

 

“Shut up,” he huffed, pausing to lift Paul higher up his back. “You’re heavier when you talk.”

 

“Hmm.” Paul’s voice was muffled as his head lolled into the crook of John’s shoulder. They were silent again for another few minutes until John felt a shiver creep down his spine as Paul’s nose brushed against _that spot_ on his neck. That spot that nobody was supposed to go near- not without certain intentions, anyway.

 

It wasn’t Paul’s fault. He was still only fifteen and couldn’t catch so much as a whiff of scent just yet- and he wouldn’t, not until next month when his sixteenth birthday finally came around. He didn’t know what he was doing, so John bit his lip and tried to ignore the feeling of Paul’s nose skimming across his scent gland and the area of sensitive skin surrounding it. His instincts were screaming to drape Paul in his own suffocating musk. Cynthia hated it when he slobbered all over her like that with no other intention than to claim possession to anyone in a fifty-foot radius, but he wondered if Paul would be quite so hesitant. Maybe he’d let John lay him down right here in the middle of the street and show him exactly who he belonged to. And maybe John would actually _do it_ , if given half the chance.

 

They were almost at the corner of Menlove avenue when John’s heart stuttered. Paul had just caught the side of his neck with the edge of his front tooth.

 

 _He doesn’t know what he’s doing_ , John told himself over and over, speeding up his pace so they could get inside as soon as possible and he could disentangle himself from the kid. It was an unconscious, instinctive gesture. Paul’s hormones were probably just all over the place, confusing him, anticipating the upcoming milestone in his life. That was the only explanation for why Paul would be sniffing out the best place to sink his teeth in and leave a mating mark on John’s neck.

 

This was the only reasonable, _rational_ explanation. This was the only explanation John was willing to entertain.

 

Paul was just drunk and so was John. That was a sensible conclusion to make. John sucked down a few antsy cigarettes in the hope of willing away his raging hard-on as Paul snored soundly on the left side of his tiny bed. A few minutes later when he was about as composed as he could possibly be, John stripped off his leathers and climbed in beside him, laid on his side, face to face with the sleeping boy.

 

Fuck, Paul looked cute when he dribbled like that. Unpresented kids weren’t supposed to make his heart flutter and his cheeks burn pink.

 

Needless to say, John hardly slept a wink the rest of the night- and when he did, his dreams were full of miracles. Paul in his lap, lashes fluttering and scent something akin to coconut rum- completely his for the taking.

 

The male Omega. A perfect, impossible fantasy.

 

* * *

 

 

What was an appropriate present for a sixteenth birthday? Things would’ve been easier if Paul was likely to present as an Alpha. John could just toss him a beer, ruffle his hair and take him out to the club for his first chance as slinging one up an Omega like he did with the rest of the lads. If Paul was going to be an Alpha, things would be easier, because John wouldn’t be fretting about his silly little crush. Things would be _over_.

 

A deck of fags seemed appropriate. Paul was sixteen now, so he could smoke legally, even in front of his dad (not that he’d ever dare do so)- so John made his way down Forthlin road with his hands tucked into the pocket of his trousers, leather jacket heavy on his shoulders in the warm summer air. He wasn’t sure why, but he felt nervous as he pushed his finger against the doorbell. And, beyond that, he felt just a little bit sad. Paul presenting as a beta meant that the dream had more or less officially died. There was no chance there’d ever be anything between them now. John could go back to spending all his time and attention on Cynthia, like he was supposed to. Paul could shag his way through every beta bird in town like _he_ was supposed to, and neither of them would bat a fucking eyelid.

 

John’s world could go back to normal. Maybe, beyond that, they’d even become a little bit famous, if they caught the right lucky break.

 

The front door of the McCartney family home swung open, and John squeezed the fresh fag packet in his hands so hard that he was sure each and every one of the little white sticks of wrapped tobacco were crushed.

 

Paul’s scent hit him like a fucking tidal wave.

 

Bakewell tart. Paul smelt like a fucking _bakewell tart_ , rich cherry and shortcrust pastry, the underlying tinge of something sharp and almost alcoholic. Through that, streaks of vanilla tickled the air around them, flooding John’s nostrils and electrifying his brain. Every hair on his body spiked, tickling the collar of his shirt. _Fucking_ _hell_ \- John was surprised his knees didn’t give out immediately. Paul didn’t say anything at all, at first, just stood there all doe-eyed and gorgeous, waiting for his reaction.

 

They watched each other silently for at least a full minute before Paul let out a sigh.

 

“Perhaps you should come in.”

 

John entered the house, leaving Paul’s pathetic excuse of a birthday present on the shiny wooden table. His hands were shaking, and Paul noticed, even if he didn’t say. He had a thousand different words on the tip of his tongue, but his mouth remained closed, and he avoided Paul’s eye completely. What else was he supposed to do?

 

Paul was a fucking _Omega_.

 

Dreams didn’t just _become real_ \- not in John’s experience. Life dealt you whatever shitty hand it thought you deserved, and you just _got on with it_ , doing your best with what you had. That was John’s life, anyway. He didn’t just _get_ everything he’d ever wanted on a silver platter. He didn’t _get_ Paul. It was just a stupid fantasy to help him along when he tugged himself off. John hadn’t actually considered how he was supposed to react if what he wanted became a reality.

 

“Da’s a beta, obviously but… me mam, she was an Alpha. Kept it quiet, kept to themselves. Me and Mike didn’t actually know… we were too young and they didn’t like to talk about it. Not… not until she passed and… well. Da’ was sure one of us would end up being an Omega. Guess I just hoped it would be Mike.”

 

“You’re… you’re an Omega.” John muttered under his breath. It was strange, saying it out loud. Almost made it seem real.

 

 _Fuck_ , John thought. _It is real, you idiot._

Paul didn’t seem to hear him anyway, nor could he read thoughts, to John’s knowledge, thank God. He just leant against the table with his hands behind his back, keeping his eyes fixed anywhere but John’s.

 

“I’m… I’m going away for a week. Spend some time with my cousins in the Cotswolds. They’re Omegas too. For…” he stuttered, cheeks tinging pink. John was sure his heart hadn’t beat once in a good few seconds, but when he did catch eyes with a suddenly shy and embarrassed-looking Paul, it raced at an un-godly speed. He knew what Paul was going to say. He just wasn’t sure if he was going to be able to hear it without keeling over.

 

“… for my heat.” Paul’s voice was barely a whisper. Then, he took in a slow breath, and looked up to catch eyes with John. He looked scared. Scrap that- he looked _terrified_ , and for the first time since they’d met, John didn’t have a single thing to say to him. Of course Paul was scared. Everyone was scared when they first presented- but God forbid, presenting as a _male Omega,_ in _Liverpool,_ in 1958. John couldn’t imagine what was racing through his head right that second.

 

 _For my heat_. That was another imagine John couldn’t ignore. God, he’d sell his soul to catch so much as a glimpse of Paul- sweaty and pale, writhing around in some little Omega cousins bed, hard-on screaming for attention. _Spend it with me_ \- he wanted to scream. _I’ll take care of you. I’ll do anything you want-_ but the words couldn’t quite find their way out of his throat, and instead John found himself just _standing_ there, blinking like a fucking idiot as Paul watched him expectantly, waiting for him to say _anything_.

 

John didn’t think he could. John couldn’t think of a single, God-damn thing he could say that would set their world right again.

 

“I’m sorry John.” Paul sounded upset, close to tears even, and that broke his heart- but John didn’t stop walking towards the front door, Paul chasing after him all cherry-and-dark-liquor. “I… I hope this doesn’t ruin things with the band. I can… we can still be mates, can’t we?”

 

John didn’t say anything at all. He left the house and walked all the way home without once allowing himself to so much as look back.

 

* * *

 

 

John’s intention was to make his way straight home, curl up in bed with his new Elvis record playing to distract him for a while. If anything, Mimi’s high-strung yelling would be a welcome distraction from his turbulent thoughts. However, as his feet took him on a tour of the neighbourhood his mind couldn’t quite follow, soon enough John found himself not in the awning of Mendips, but instead outside Julia’s cluttered little house, his two half-sisters playing with a ball in the front garden.

 

“John!” their sweet little voices sang, and despite his turmoil, John leant down to give them both a cuddle. Julia must’ve heard their voices through the open door, and appeared on the doorstep with a toothy smile, her wild, curly red hair wrapped up in a hot red bandana.

 

“Hello love.” She looked at him curiously with those eyes that he loathed to be trapped under. Julia had a strange, mad look about her sometimes. John felt as if every time her eyes fell on him, she found her way inside his mind, weeding out each and every one of his dirty little secrets. And he had quite a few of those. More than he was willing to admit. Fuck, his whole life had been based on dirty little secrets. It was only recently some of them, particularly those regarding his mother, had come to light.

 

“Come inside.” Julia wasn’t smiling anymore, just giving him that _knowing_ look of hers, before leading him out into the dining room, away from the girls’ excitable chatter.

 

It was summer now, gorgeous English sun shining down over them, and John couldn’t help but feel uneasy as the heat tickled his skin through the windows. His shrugged out of his jacket and within minutes, a steaming cup of tea was set down before him, Julia settled dead opposite.

 

“What’s the matter, John?”

 

There was little point in beating around the bush. Julia would find her way into his head eventually. John was, if anything, too tired to lie.

 

“Paul’s an omega.” He said, anticipating, at the very least, a surprised reaction. Of course, it never came. Julia was an Omega too- even if she acted with the authority of an Alpha at the best of times. It had always been said that intuitive Omega’s could detect their own. Julia was the most fucking intuitive bird he’d ever known.

 

“Rightly so.” She nodded. “What do you think of that?”

 

“What am I supposed to think?” he huffed. “Wanting to fuck him before was bad enough, but at least then it was just a fantasy, not an actual possibility.”

 

Julia hummed thoughtfully, unfazed by John’s crass choice of words, something she’d become more or less accustom too over the last year or so. A soft smile crossed her pretty face, and she reached forwards to stroke his hand.

 

“I always knew you liked him, you know. I said it to the girls when you introduced him to us. _That’s John’s special friend_ , I said.”

 

“Leave it out, Julia. My heads all over the place here, and you aren’t helping with your fairy-tale romance bull- _shite_.”

 

“Because I don’t see the issue, love. You and Paul would make a gorgeous pair. What’s holding you back?”

 

“It isn’t right… is it? Paul’s… Paul’s a lad. And I’m not a queer. It… it isn’t exactly   _normal_ , is it?”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with an Alpha falling for an Omega, John. It’s just about as _normal_ as things get.”

 

“But that’s just it- I liked him _before_ he presented. Big old scary ted _John Lennon_ , lusting after some scrawny unpresented little lad. I’m sick, mum. There’s got to be something terribly twisted about me to want _that_.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with you or Paul or you and Paul, John.” Julia sighed, reaching across the table to hold his hand. “Forget Alpha and Omega and all the rest of it. It’s only love. There can’t be anything wrong with that.”

 

It didn’t matter that she was right. John wasn’t ready for an easy resolution to his life-changing problems. Love would always find a way, sure, if you were _Julia Lennon_ \- what with her forty-five kids from forty-five different men and complete inability to keep a steady husband. No, that wasn’t fair- John scolded himself, frustrated and distressed as he made his way back to his home, mendips. Love couldn’t be that simple for him and Paul. Besides, who’s to say that Paul even wanted him anyway? How could that ever work- two spotty lads from Merseyside, falling in _love_? Fairy-tales didn’t just _happen_ , not in their world anyway.

 

So fuck Julia and _fuck Paul._

 

John didn’t call his house when Paul was due home a week later.


	2. Burnt Cherry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John avoids Paul for three long, painful weeks and then- something terrible happens.

 

John didn’t call Paul’s house when he was due home, just a week after his reality-defying presentation. He didn’t even ring the week after that. The week after _that_ , Paul took up some initiative himself, and telephoned Mendips a few times. Mimi would shout herself silly, hollering up the stairs that _his friend Paul_ was on the telephone, and John would crack open his door just long enough to yell back, _tell him I’m not bloody home_ , before slamming it loud enough to shake the whole house. He didn’t care that Mimi screamed back at him for disrespecting her precious _landing_.

 

He didn’t even care that he’d barely left his own house for the last two weeks. Band practice was obsolete, because what if Paul showed up? What if the lads asked _questions_? Pete had telephoned once, and John had just lied, told him he was ill. Pete bought it- or, if he didn’t, he didn’t bother saying- and John suspected that deep down, he wasn’t really that bothered at all. It was no secret that Pete’s parents had given him an ultimatum when it came to his budding career as a rock-n-roll star.

 

 _“The navy or the Police, they say_. _Imagine me as a copper John? Arresting people. Arresting you, even_.”

 

He was heartbroken, essentially. And John was sad too. Neither Pete or his washboard were exactly essential to the band as they moved on from their makeshift skiffle racket to a more polished, _rock ‘n roll_ sound, but Pete was his mate, and had been for a long time. Of course he’d miss him.

 

Not that he didn’t have a few new mates, of course. Since fucking up his exams, John had enrolled in the Liverpool College of Art, and so far it was actually quite _gear_ \- he’d painted tits and got a blowjob in an empty classroom, met Cyn, met _Stu_. Stu was pretty gear himself, actually. Paul didn’t seem to think much of him, but John liked his _modern_ way of thinking and his cool, _real_ art- so much _more_ to it than John’s chicken-scratch doddles and warbled, twisting poems.

 

(it didn’t matter that Paul liked his silly little scribbles and his stupid, ugly poems more than anything of Stu’s he’d ever seen. Paul didn’t _get_ art. There wasn’t any rules to art, and Paul was too much of a goody two-shoes to picture any kind of life without his precious _rules_ )

 

Stu and Paul weren’t exactly the best of mates, having nothing in common other than the fact that they both liked _John,_ but even Stu was looking at him with pity in his eyes when they met up to paint that dingy basement for Alan, shaking his head and muttering that John was a _fucking idiot_ , passing up the chance at something _new_ for the sake of his own fear.

 

“Why’d you even care what people might think, John?” he’d huffed. “All the ancients were queer anyway. Might give you some creative inspiration, if nothing else.”

 

John just rolled his eyes and ignored Stu. Actively avoided him, even, hardly bothering to show up to college as he brooded in his room and tried his best to ignore the way Paul flirted with him in his dreams. Stu didn’t understand- Pete wouldn’t either. John didn’t give a fuck what anyone else thought anyway, not really. He was just scared. So far in his life, everything he’d ever dared to love had a way of getting away from him. He’d only just got his own mother back, for Christ’s sake. What kind of life was that?

 

John saw nothing of Paul for three long, painful weeks after his sixteenth birthday. And then, on the morning of July fifteenth, nineteen-fifty-eight, his mother, his _Julia_ left Mendips with a smile on her face, before stepping out into the road and getting blown away, blown right out of his life, at the hands of a drunken, off-duty police officer.

 

 _God_ , John wanted to wail, but his pride kept him from breaking down until he was behind the safety of his own bedroom door. _Why is my life so fucking unfair_?

 

He’d _just_ gotten Julia back. Just gotten the chance to get to know her, to meet his sisters, to finally understand just why he’d been raised by his aunt and his lovely Uncle George, to maybe one day find his father, meet his long-lost sister…

 

There was so much they had left to do together. Yet, as easy as he’d stumbled across her house that day after Uncle George’s funeral with Stan, she was gone.

_Stupid bint_ , he fumed, more at himself than her or anyone else. He couldn’t even cry anymore, not after the first day. If anything, John was now more angry than upset. He wanted to punch and kick and smash up the entire house, smash up his precious guitar, snap his vinyl LP’s and feel the black shards stab at his fingertips much more than he wanted to cry. _Stupid fucking cunt_ \- but he couldn’t do that, not here, not to Mendips. Not with Mimi a few thin walls away, crying in her empty bedroom at night when she thought he couldn’t hear her.

 

So, instead of exploding, John put all of his energy into doing nothing at all. He laid in bed and stared at his guitar from across the room. He didn’t play any music, didn’t listen to the radio through the speaker he’d wired into his bedroom. Not even Saturday lunchtime, when his and Paul’s favourite station had promised to debut the new Elvis track. John couldn’t stand so much as the _idea_ of music.

 

Because Julia loved music. _Because_ of Julia, John loved music. She was the one who whirled him into his first jive listening to a rock-n-roll tune, and it was Julia who had laid in his arms whilst listening to the baritone reverb of _Screamin’ Jay Hawkins._ Julia was the one who showed _him_ how to fucking make music for himself, strumming away on that rickety old bajo to _Maggie Mae,_ every single time he stepped foot in her quaint, cluttered little house.

 

No, he couldn’t bear the idea of music. Not without Julia. Not without Paul.

 

John didn’t actually leave his room at all for four days. He hardly slept, barely ate, and although she didn’t say anything, still consumed by her own grief, Mimi was more than worried about him. But John couldn’t bring himself to put on a brave face, not even for her sake. It was, truly, like a piece of himself had gone missing. Julia wasn’t the only woman he’d ever loved, not by a long-shot- he had Mimi and he had Cyn and he had little Julia and Jackie too- but Julia was, certainly, the only Omega he’d ever truly _respected_. Julia had swatted the back of his head and proved to him that status didn’t mean a damn thing when it came to being strong, being clever, being _better_ than him, in so many ways.

 

It didn’t matter that he’d spent so many years without catching so much as a glimpse of a mother. Now she was gone, there was a hole in his heart. And John wasn’t sure if it would ever be filled.

 

Then, after another afternoon slouched in bed, half a tearful poem scrunched up and tossed in the waste-bin across the room, he _smelt_ it.

 

 _Bakewell tart_. That was why he’d been so fucking intoxicated by Paul. Julia smelt just like fresh cherries. Paul’s scent was different, but familiar in that lovely, homey sort of way. It was still teasing, still suggestive in that softcore, vanilla type of scent- but _familiar_ , above everything else.

 

John inhaled that scent through his open window and sat bolt upright in his bed as it grew stronger and stronger, leading up the garden path until a shrill ring shook the house.

 

His mam used to always say _soulmates_ could smell each other from fifty paces. He’d always considered it to be an absolute crock of shite, because _true soulmates_ didn’t exist, of course they didn’t- but that didn’t change the fact that he could smell Paul from down the fucking street, maybe further, because he hadn’t called recently, and John certainly didn’t remember sending him a fucking invitation.

 

For a few minutes, John paced around his shoebox bedroom with his hands held tightly behind his back, trying to decipher if he had just finally fucking lost it or if it was true- if Paul really _was_ here, only a few tangible feet away. Mimi hadn’t hollered his name up the stairs just yet, casting doubt onto his assumption, but despite only ever being near it once, the smell was so distinctive, so _Paul_ , it tugged his gut and lead him out of the solace of his bedroom, down the stairs no less than ten minutes later, where he found a sight he never quite thought he’d see.

 

Paul and Mimi were sat at the kitchen table. Paul and Mimi were having _tea_ , of all things, both turning to spot him as he appeared in the doorway. God, it had only been three weeks, but he’d forgotten how huge and gorgeous those stupid doe-eyes of Paul’s was. And Mimi- well- it wasn’t as if she _didn’t_ like Paul. To be fair, Paul was among the more favoured of his brood of teddy-boys given the fact that he was so consistently polite and impossibly charming, but Mimi didn’t really _like_ anyone, or- at least- didn’t like to let them know if she did.

 

But there she was, sat at the kitchen table with Paul, eyes still red from where she’d been crying for five days straight, having fucking _tea_ and custard creams.

 

Silence stretched between them for a few, agonising moments, and then, like a rabbit in fucking headlights, Paul was shooting up from his seat, somehow just as shocked to see John as John was to see Paul, despite the fact that this was his fucking house.

 

“Hi John.” He said. John swallowed thickly, before nodding.

 

“Hullo Paul.”

 

Gesturing to the cups at the table, Paul asked, “Tea?” and John could just about bring himself to nod, barely muttering out ‘ _thanks’_ as Paul fussed around with the teapot and a fresh cup, keeping his eyes fixed on the white tablecloth as John took a seat in the empty chair, sliding his tea over.

 

“I- you… you should eat. I’ll make ya something- if that’s alright, Mimi?”

 

“Of course, Paul.” Mimi nodded, and John could’ve collapsed right then and there. _His_ Mimi, just allowing Paul to root through their cupboards and make a fucking _sandwich_. Maybe Julia hadn’t died. Maybe he’d died, and this was some kind of distorted version of _Hell_ where everything was backwards. “You know where everything is.” Mimi said, and Paul skittered over to the pantry to collect his precious ingredients, John’s eyes following every inch of him until he was no longer in the room.

 

Lips pressed to the rim of her cup (the good china, John noticed) Mimi finally acknowledged him. It was the first time they’d actually spoken in days, and if there was anything John would’ve guessed he was about to hear, it certainly wasn’t-

 

“You know, you’ve got a chance with a good, proper Omega there, John. Not like that drippy blonde girl. Someone who will take _real_ care of you. Sensible and polite. Don’t miss your chance by being daft.”

 

John couldn’t even form words, let alone make any sort of stab at an educated reply. Instead, he sat at the table and stared at Mimi in silent shock. As usual, her stoic face gave _nothing_ away, and she continued to sip her tea in silence as Paul re-entered the room, fiddling about with bread and butter and lettuce and ham, humming quietly under his breath. there was the ghost of a smile on her face when she recognised the tune. _Tchaikovsky_ , of course. Paul was such a parent’s wet dream.

 

She liked Paul. Aunt Mimi was the last person John would’ve _dreamed_ to approve of any kind of relationship between him and another lad. She wasn’t the carefree, caution-to-the-wind, bottle-rocket that her sister had been. In Mimi’s day, male Omega’s were sent off to the fucking West Country to live out their lives in shameful solitude. But no- she _liked_ Paul, despite everything, and John smiled into his tea. Mimi didn’t really _like_ anyone. Not even him.

 

(But she _liked_ Paul)

 

Like the good little housewife, Paul served John his sandwich on a small white plate, before retaking his seat opposite him at the tiny table. Neither of them said a word, not until Mimi glared at him, a silent reminder of _don’t fuck it up_ , and he choked out another mumbled ‘ _thank you’_ before lifting the food to his lips.

 

Suddenly, John was _ravenous_ , and he didn’t hesitate another second before shoving half the sandwich into his mouth, barely even chewing, just swallowing the strips of meat like a wild animal. After a minute or so of his disgusting display, Mimi tutted and said something about heading to the church to make some arrangements for the funeral (apparently, they’d received quite a generous donation from the bible-bashers for memorial costs) but he hardly noticed, hardly even heard, too lost in the pleasure of food lining his aching stomach until he heard the front door click shut behind them. Then, as he reached forwards to devour the rest of his sandwich, he discovered his plate was, in fact, empty.

 

Sighing, only half satisfied, John took another sip from his tea before finally daring to look across the table at Paul, who he found to be staring right back at him.

 

Paul was looking at him as if he was a wild animal behind the glass at a zoo, and suddenly, John just couldn’t stand the idea of not being able to touch him anymore. It had been _weeks_ , and of course, it was his fault- but it had been _weeks and weeks_ since he felt anything close to being fulfilled. The hole in his heart where Julia had been was still just as empty, but now, seeing Paul, it was _screaming_. John wanted to swallow him whole, even if only for temporary satisfaction.

 

Still, he couldn’t do _that_ \- not here. Not at Mimi’s kitchen table. So instead, he settled for a slightly diluted version of his fantasy.

 

He nodded, vaguely, before muttering- “Come ‘ead, then _._ ”- and Paul didn’t hesitate before leaping to his feet and scurrying over to the other side of the table to sit on John’s knee. It barely took them a second to get comfortable, and John couldn’t help but feel like Paul had been _made_ for this, made to be with him in every way, and he was crying before he even noticed he felt sad- Paul’s arms snaking around the back of his head, holding him close to his chest.

_Cherry_ , it was everywhere, it was in his nose and in his head and it reminded him of his _mam_ , who was _dead_ , so John did nothing but cry silently, shoulders quivering, arms tight around Paul’s lower back.

 

After a few minutes of silence, a button nose brushing against the crown of his hair, cheeks soft as snow as they teased across his forehead, Paul finally spoke, and John had never been more grateful to hear someone else’s voice.

 

“I’m not going to say I’m sorry because I know how that probably means fuck all to you right now. All I can say is that I understand and I know it hurts and I’m _here_ for ya, John. Through thick and thin, if you’d like.”

 

It was simple. It was hardly anything really. Paul didn’t molly coddle him (although, he did _literally_ cuddle him, and John more than enjoyed the intimacy) and Paul didn’t spout promises he didn’t mean.

 

Paul understood. Paul had lost his mam only two years or so previous, so, more than _anyone_ , he understood. And that was enough to give John the strength to pull back, cease his silly weeping, and look Paul in the eyes rather than avoiding his gaze.

 

“Fuck,” he sniffed, as Paul gave a quiet laugh and handed him a napkin off the table to dab at his wet, swollen eyes. “And I thought _you_ were the Omega.”

 

“Oi! I’m still a _man_.”

 

“Is that so? See, I’d forgotten, what with you running off to make sandwiches like some _wife_.”

 

“You’re skin and bone,” Paul tutted, pinching the material of his shirt, bunching at his shoulder before shaking his head fondly. “Mimi said you weren’t eating. You needed to eat.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“For what?”

 

John sucked in a tight breath, leant back in the chair, trying to ignore how comfortable he felt with Paul in his lap, like he hadn’t been anything more than an unpresented little runt playing guitar in his band only a few weeks ago.

 

“Your birthday,” he sighed. It wasn’t often that the mighty _John Lennon_ apologised, nor admitted he was wrong. Paul likely knew to treasure it. “I shouldn’t have… reacted like that. I was just… I don’t know, I was _shocked_.”

 

He winced, waiting for the scolding. Paul always scolded him when he acted a prat. He wouldn’t put up with it. _Unprofessional, John_ , he’d yell when John got too drunk to sing the right lyrics after they took a break between performances- but this time around, the scolding never came. Paul _smiled_ , oddly enough, fingers rubbing at John’s hair, clean and fluffy and free from all that gunk he usually raked through it, right at the base of his neck.

 

“You took it well.” He said. “I half expected ya to sock me in the face.”

 

“I’d _never_ hit ya.” John’s face twisted as if he’d eaten something sour. He was an angry bastard at the best of times, of course. He’d raised his hand to many a lad and the occasional bird too, even Cyn once or twice (although though the memory of such made his stomach twist). Often, too often, he acted on impulse without thinking. But hitting _Paul_ \- no. Out of the question. John would rather walk in front of a bus than ruin that face.

 

“Really? Not even now I’m this… _freak of nature-_ ”

 

“-don’t say that about yourself, Paul,” John physically recoiled, face tugging into a frown as he cut Paul off. He couldn’t bare it. Paul was _perfect_ \- why couldn’t he _understand?_ “You’re…” but John couldn’t just _tell_ him that. He’d just got Paul back. He didn’t want to scare him off before they had a chance to make up properly. “…You’re _different_ , yeah.” He settled on saying. “That’s what makes ya special! Being an Omega doesn’t change the fact that you’re a… you’re a bloody genius guitarist who’s probably gonna be the most famous musician on the planet one day.”

 

Paul blushed at his gushing praise, leaning back with his hands still around the back of John’s neck as if he couldn’t bare to hear it anymore- but the smile on his face was telling, and just a little bit smug.

 

“Don’t you mean _we’re_ gonna be?” he asked.

 

“Still fancy my band then?” he passed it off as a casual question, but John couldn’t pretend like the issue hadn’t been grating on his mind for weeks. Without Paul they _weren’t a band_. Paul was the magic. John was the _image_ , the frontman, _sure_ \- but without Paul the Quarrymen were _nothing_ compared to the rest of the up and coming groups on Merseyside.

 

John needed Paul in so many ways. This- tea and sandwiches and soft little touches in Mimi’s kitchenette- was just the beginning.

 

“Still fancy me in it?” Paul asked, and John fumbled as he reached for his tea-cup, almost spilling it all over Mimi’s crisp white sheet.

 

 _Still fancy you_ , John wanted to say. But, for now, he’d be keeping those thoughts to himself.

 

“Of course.” He said instead. “You’re our only talented member.”

 

“Shut _up_ John.” Paul rolled his eyes, and (or maybe John was just imagining it) held him a little bit tighter. “You’re _dynamite_.”

 

“Hm.” John hummed, a sad smile crossing his features. “Julia used to say that too. Never really believed her.”

 

Paul smiled back, and John was enchanted by the little tug of his perfect, pretty lips. _God_ , he thought to himself _Look at that fucking mouth. How did I ever doubt he’d be anything but an Omega?_

“When’s the funeral?”

 

“Next week.” John sighed. “I… Paul… would ya- would you maybe come? With me, like?”

 

“Of course I’ll come, John,” Paul hugged him again, and John relished in the feeling of that Cherry Bakewell scent, enveloping him. It was like being hugged twice, once around his body, and once around his senses, warming his insides. “I’ll be anywhere you need me, anyway, anyhow. Forever.”

 

“Forever ‘n ever?” John asked, hoping he didn’t sound as choked up as he felt. As of recent, he hadn’t been able to stand the idea of _forever_. _I’ll love you forever_ , Julia had said when they reunited, but it wasn’t true, because now she was gone.

 

“If you like,” Paul replied.

 

Nothing lasted forever- the very notion of forever, for John, felt _fake_ \- it felt like a _lie_ \- but when Paul said it then, sat in his lap with his eyes all hooded and soft, John really believed him. _Fuck_ , he’d believe anything Paul said if he kept looking at him like that.

 

 _It would be so easy to kiss him_ , John thought. _So easy._

 

“-You look tired, John.” Paul said, interrupting his rambling consciousness, and like a trigger, John felt a yawn creep over him. He couldn’t hold out much longer- he _was_ shattered. Sleep hadn’t exactly been coming to him easily, as of late. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the headlights of a car, the faded sound of _I caught a spell on you_ , the smell of burnt cherry pie.

 

“I haven’t been sleeping.” He admitted, and Paul ran his soft hands down John’s chest before finally pulling away, letting them fall into his lap.

 

“D’you wanna go lie down?” he asked, and John nodded. To be honest, he couldn’t think of anything that sounded quite so inviting. Paul hopped up from his lap and John followed him, standing up from the table. He waited for Paul to move through the hallway, rounding the stairs and heading to his room.

 

But he didn’t. He hesitated in the space between the foot of the stairs and the porch door, eyes shining with uncertainty.

 

“I can… I can go, if you’re tired.”

 

“Go?” John frowned.

 

“Well… yeah. Go home. So you can sleep.”

 

“Can’t ya… I mean… I wouldn’t mind if you wanted to… come and lay with me, for a bit- maybe.” God- this was _pathetic_. John felt like a skinny, spotty fifteen-year-old trying to talk his way into bed for the first time. It wasn’t like he was actually going to _shag_ Paul. He was fucking exhausted. Even in the unlikely event of Paul sticking it on _him_ , he doubted he’d be able to give much of a performance.

 

Plus, right now, sex wasn’t the kind of closeness John was craving. He just wanted to hold Paul. He wanted to smell his scent in his bedsheets for days following his departure.

 

He came off as nonchalant as ever, but John could see the slight blush on Paul’s cheeks as he gave a shaky nod and took a step towards the stairs.

 

“I… of course. If you want me to. That’s fine.” Paul stammered, trying and failing to hold back a light blush as he avoided John’s eye, huffing nervously. “…’course I will.”

 

John reached out and took him by the hand, silently leading him up to the second floor of the house and into his tiny bedroom. At first, they both sat on the edge of the bed as they had a thousand times before, with guitars and notebooks full of half-formed songs. This was very different, for obvious reasons. John didn’t recall his heart ever beating so fast in anyone’s presence, let alone _Paul’s_. They’d slept together so many times, so innocently, even in this exact bed, but as Paul took the initiative to climb over to the side by the wall, peeling the bedsheets back and slipping beneath them before nodding for John to join him, all he could think was that it had never quite felt this small.

 

John laid back against his single pillow and lifted an arm for Paul to slip underneath. He did, without question nor words, and settled his head just at the centre of John’s chest, breathing deeply. John could feel Paul’s hair tickling at his nostrils. He allowed himself to inhale as deeply as he could, catching Paul’s gorgeous, brand-new scent. It was still so strong, being so fresh- just as enticing here, close up and personal as it had been halfway down the street. John felt every sense in his body tingle under his skin.

 

It wasn’t enough, just _smelling_ Paul. He needed more.

 

“Paul.” He asked, quietly. His companion took so long to answer, breaths steady against John’s stomach, that he wondered for a few moments if he’d already fallen asleep.

 

“Yeah John?”

 

“Have you ever scented with anyone?”

 

Paul sat up a little. He turned from his side to his front, arms folded across John’s chest so he could crane his neck and look him in the eye. He’d never looked more vulnerable, eyes wide and unblinking. John could feel Paul’s heart racing against his skin.

  

“Not… not properly, like. Only… for comfort, with my Omega cousins when I had my… y’know.” There it was- that word again. That word that John didn’t think he’d be able to hear without sporting some serious wood and ruining the whole thing. He was thankful that Paul chose not to say it- _heat-_ and instead just looking away.

 

“D’you… did you maybe want to have a go?” John bit the inside of his cheek, hoping he didn’t sound too pushy. He needed this- needed this more than he’d initially realised until the chance was his for the taking- but the last thing he wanted to do was make Paul feel pressured. So far, they hadn’t so much as had a _conversation_ about how their relationship might change, going forwards. Scenting didn’t _mean_ anything- not unless you were a sixteen-year-old _bird_ who fell in love as quickly and as often as buses arrived- but in this moment, the idea held a new weight.

 

Paul looked vulnerable, sure. But there was nobody on that street more vulnerable than John was right that second, and almost as if he could sense it, Paul gave the slightest, quietest nod of consent, before rolling onto his back beside John, arching his neck and presenting himself.

 

He was so open, so totally ready for the taking; John’s mouth was watering just at the sight of it, arms shaking as he rested his fists either side of Paul’s head and leant down as slowly as he possibly could, lowering his nose into the juncture of Paul’s neck to take first _sniff_. This was supposed to be for Paul- to _teach_ him how to do it so he knew what he was doing, going forwards- but John _needed_ it. He needed it so much, and it took all the will power he _had_ not to sink his teeth into Paul’s neck then and there, claiming him as _his_ , forever.

 

(Of course, he wouldn’t do that to Paul. He wouldn’t do that to anyone- _mate_ them without asking. That was… well. Some said that was the worst violation that anyone could possibly inflict on another human being. It had happened to girls from school, women in town with bruising around their faded marks, fingers absentmindedly brushing against the skin every now and then, hoping that nobody noticed the dark, a strange, frightened look in their eyes.)

 

So John allowed himself to brush his lips against Paul’s neck just chastely and moved no further, instead leaning in close to inhale every drop of that shortcrust cherry-and-vanilla scent, letting it pour over him like a warm bath, soaking every inch of him from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.

 

After what could’ve been twenty minutes or could’ve been _twenty years_ , John didn’t care, Paul ceased nosing at his neck in return and laid back against the pillow, wordlessly wrapping his arms around John’s back and pulling him down so that they could lay together. John was content, and found himself more than comfortable resting against Paul’s soft chest, and with a hand carding through his tousled hair and a steady heartbeat thudding against his cheek, John finally _slept_ , for the first time in over a week.


	3. Strawberry Fields Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul have somewhat of a rude awakening. Based on some advice from Mimi, John makes an important decision about how their relationship should progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love love love to everyone enjoying this fic! The response has been so amazing. I hope you enjoy this update. There is plenty more to follow.

“John, Paul, wake up!”

 

John groaned as he heard the sound of the light-switch being flicked on, a gritty buzz filling the room before dreary, yellow light pierced through his eyelids. His body ached in defiance, completely unwilling to drag itself from the comfort of slumber. He’d had an _excellent_ sleep, and, he was quite surprised to note, John found himself to be laying _on_ something that certainly wasn’t his pillow but seemed just as soft, something that was _alive_ , a chest rising and falling, soft cherry scent tickling at his nose.

 

“John.” Paul’s voice sang through, so much softer and clearer than Mimi’s harsh yapping, and John forced himself to open his eyes as Paul sat up, rubbing at his hair softly. “Are you awake?”

 

“I am now.” John huffed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his fists as his head fell from Paul’s chest into his lap. He craned his neck back further to catch sight of Mimi, lingering in the doorway with a slight glare. “What is it? A fire?”

 

Of course, John knew what this _looked_ like. It didn’t matter how much Mimi liked Paul, she’d string them both up by the neck if she ever caught wind of any pre-marital _shagging_ going on in her house. But in the light of the early morning, John really couldn’t have cared less. Paul’s lap was warm and soft and he could smell him _everywhere,_ all over his clothes and his bedsheets and his skin. John had never felt more at peace in his own home.

 

Yet here Aunt Mimi was. Disturbing them. _Go figure._

 

“Paul, your father just called.” She said, mouth setting into a thin, unreadable line. “He sounded quite worried, wondering where you were.”

 

“Oh, right.” Paul blinked a few times, still seemingly half a sleep himself, before pushing his hair out of his face. “I fell asleep before I could tell him I was staying over. I’m sure he’s livid-”

 

“-he wants you home.” Mimi said with a tired sigh. “I’m sure you’ll see yourself out. Thank you for your condolences.” And that was it, she disappeared back around John’s bedroom door, not bothering to close it behind her. John listened out for the sound of her slippers edging down the hall, retreating back to her own room as Paul huffed a cute little sigh, stretching his limbs before moving to climb out of the bed, ignoring John’s whines of protest.

 

“Five more minutes, _Pud_ , come on. I was having the best sleep of my life, there, mate-”

 

“It’s,” Paul squinted at his watch, safely set on the bedside table. “Just gone half seven. There’s a few more hours for you yet. I should get home, da’ll murder me.”

 

“But-”

 

“-Sorry John.” He smiled tiredly, swinging his legs off the bed and reaching down to pull on his shoes. “I’ll see you later though?”

 

Sprawled out in the warm, empty space Paul’s body had once occupied, John stretched his aching limbs and groaned, loud enough that he was sure Mimi could hear him from the other side of the house.

 

“Later, yeah,” he mumbled and nodded, still a little drowsy. “I… we could write? Maybe not here, not with her lurking around. Strawberry field?”

 

“Strawberry field.” Paul nodded in agreement with a yawn and a smile, standing up to shrug on his jacket before kneeling down beside the bed to peer at John’s half-sleeping face. “About five alright with you?”

 

“Yeah, five.” John sighed. “I still wish you could stay.” He might have just been still half-asleep, maybe even just dreaming, but John was sure he could see a blush on Paul’s pale, rounded cheeks as he looked away, biting back what John hoped was a grin.

 

“I’ll see you later John.” Out of nowhere, Paul surged forwards, dropping a soft kiss to the side of John’s face, before standing up and adjusting his collar, shifting awkwardly in the doorway from foot to foot. “Get some more sleep, yeah? You still look knackered.”

 

“I… okay- alright…” John blinked a few times, a little dumbfounded. Paul had _kissed_ him. only on the cheek, mind, but still. Paul’s _lips_ had brushed his face. This was new. They certainly hadn’t done _kissing_ before, but John was more than eager to try it out again. “I’ll see you out-” he insisted, but Paul was having none of it:

 

“-go to sleep John,” his voice sounded further away than before, floating downstream into his ears from way out in the hall, sweet scent trailing after him in a cloud. “I’ll see you later.” Were his final words, and then, John’s bedroom door swung shut, and he was alone, left with the ghost of Paul’s kiss still damp on his cheek, and cherry shortcrust pie soaked into his bedsheets.

 

* * *

 

 

It was a good few hours later when John eventually decided to prise himself from the deathly-tight grip of his bedsheets, clock registering far more respectable (in his opinion, but probably not Mimi’s) 10:35AM. Mimi herself was long up and dressed, sitting at the kitchenette table with a worried crease in her brow as she looked over documents. Entering the room, John’s eye flickered over to Julia’s name, printed neatly at the top of the page, so he cast his eyes away. It was all still far too fresh and painful to think about, like a scab not quite healed but still so tempting to pick.

 

“The kettle’s not long boiled if you want a cup of tea.” Mimi muttered, and John did his best to huff vaguely in reply. He leant into the fridge with a mean squint, routing around for some milk. Tea would be nice, he supposed. Tea was capable of a lot of things. Sadly, bringing back the dead wasn’t one of them. John closed his eyes, taking a long, shaky breath trying to steady his heartbeat a little before reaching up into the cupboard for two teacups. He didn’t actually bother asking Mimi if she fancied one too, he just supposed that she probably needed it more than he did. So he made two steaming teas, one with two and a half sugars and then another, just how she liked, in a white china cup with a slight pinch of lemon and absolutely nothing else.

 

Teas brewed, he set the steaming cups down onto the table, and took a seat at the tiny table just opposite her. She didn’t thank him for the tea, but then, John didn’t expect her to. Mimi hadn’t been up to much chatting. Not after the week they’d had.

 

“Sleep well?” she asked after ten minutes of silence and two slices of near-burnt toast, smothered in home-made raspberry jam. John shrugged, avoiding her eye. She had that same look Julia carried sometimes, but with Mimi it all came out far more menacing. Mimi’s eye made John feel like a naughty schoolboy all over again, pathetically trying to conceal the smashed vase or botched school report. Mimi always wormed the truth out of him eventually.

 

“How’s things?” he asked instead, clearing his throat before gesturing vaguely at the paperwork. “Funeral stuff?”

 

“Assets, or what’s left of them. The house will stay with Bobby, of course-”

 

“- _Twitchy?_ That _prick_ , why?”

 

An exasperated sigh, followed by a half-hearted “Language, John.” Was the first scrap of normality they’d shared since the accident, and John welcomed the scolding, familiar embrace like a cool sea breeze.

 

“Why him, Mimi?”

 

“He’s the father of the children, John. It’s _their_ home. Most of the money stays with them too, not that Julia had much. There’s a little left for you. Bobby says she was saving it for a rainy day, just in case you needed anything. A new _guitar_ , he said” she grimaced slightly. “Or maybe something more-”

 

“-studio time.” John mused. It was an idea they’d been kicking about a little while ago, him and Paul. Getting little George on the strings (Okay, John had to admit- he looked like a scrawny primary school child but he was the best fucking guitar player either of them had ever seen in the whole of Liverpool) and Colin on the drums, making some kind of attempt at a real record. But studio time wasn’t cheap, so the idea was just a hollow dream. Now, the possibility of reality was looming, it all just depended on the nature of this sum he’d been left.

 

“-I’d hoped you’d put it towards something more sensible.” Mimi sighed, but deep down, she didn’t seem bitter. Just tired. “But, it’s your money John. You’re almost eighteen, and therefore- quite intitled to do as you please with whatever you earn. As long as you don’t bring the racket here.”

 

At that, John could just about bear to crack a smile. “Don’t worry, Mimi. Paul and I will keep it on the porch, as usual. Acoustics and all.”

 

“Right,” she stiffened slightly, eyes still fixed on the paperwork, but flitting up to watch John every few seconds. He watched in awe as Mimi shifted in her chair, drumming her fingernails against the china of her tea cup, pressing it to her lips a few times but never actually taking a sip. It took him a few seconds, but soon John realised that Mimi was _nervous_. This gave him quite the thrill. She’d been more of a mother to him than his own _mother_ , all his life he’d known stern-faced, hard-as-nails Aunty Mimi- but not _once_ had he ever seen her _nervous_.

 

“Alright?”

 

“It’s about Paul.” She eventually admitted, taking a strong sip and swallowing loudly. “I just…”

 

“-look, Mimi, we weren’t _doing_ anything you know.” John interrupted, feeling the heat rise to his face. God, no- he didn’t even want to _imagine_ so much as the thought of Mimi, imagining _him_ , shagging _Paul_. It was all too strange, like he’d fallen through a trap door and ended up in the wrong dimension by accident. A new world, so it seemed- where left was right and red was blue, Paul was a fucking Omega and John was falling for him faster than the speed of light. “We were just… I just hadn’t slept and Paul laid down with me and we were _sleeping-_ ”

 

“-I just want you to be careful.” Mimi finally lowered her shield, setting the teacup down on the table cloth, leaning forwards with her head in her hands. For the first time ever, John noticed the streaks of grey in her dark hair, always scraped back in that neat little bun. He noticed the wrinkles around her fingers and the sunken look to her eyes, the slight yellowing of her teeth from years of cigarette smoke, and the dry skin around her mouth from where she chewed at her bottom lip when she felt anxious. “I just don’t want you to fall head over heels into another… relationship, of sorts, when you’ve just lost something so significant.”

 

“But I had Paul before.” John protested. “Not like that. He wasn’t… you know-”

 

“- That boy is an Omega, John. And he likes you, for some ghastly reason.”

 

“Oi!”

 

“I’m only teasing.” She forced a smile, and for a second, her eyes lit up in that devilishly mischievous way he so rarely caught, like the days when she used to turn her radio up to full volume in the kitchen even though she knew full well uncle George was trying to listen to the racing in the next room. John didn’t think he’d seen Mimi smile more than five times total since Uncle George passed, and that realisation did nothing but add to the sinking feeling in his stomach. “You and Paul have both been through a lot. I just don’t want either of you to rush into anything and then end up heartbroken.”

 

“I’d never hurt him, Mimi.”

 

“I know that John. It isn’t him I’m worried about.”

 

John frowned.

 

“Me?” he asked incredulously. “What on earth do you think little doe-eyed _Paul_ is going to do to me?”

 

“You’re an Alpha male John, you wouldn’t understand. When you first presented it was a celebration- incredulous amounts of alcohol guzzled at the pub and a pat on the back. For the rest of us,” she hesitated, running her fingers against the fading, bruised mating scar Uncle George had given her all those years ago, withered and receded as it was, following his passing. “Things aren’t always so easy. Paul is in a very… unstable place right now. His emotions are easily misinterpreted, even by himself. I’m not suggesting he would hurt you, of course he wouldn’t but- don’t rush into this. Take things slowly.” She gave him a pointed glare, making it clear that she wasn’t just talking about the fun dates down the sea-side and cuddling on the sofa. John blushed. _Sex_ wasn’t exactly something he and Mimi had ever talked about. No, those conversations were saved for dirty, giggly whispers with Uncle George over a sip of whiskey when she wasn’t around to scold them. But Uncle George had been gone near two years, and John had done a pretty good job at figuring out the rest for himself as he went along, no outside assistance required. “Don’t break his heart, and don’t get your own broken in the process.”

 

Letting the weight of her words melt over his shoulders and sink into his gut, John held Mimi’s eye contact before slowly nodding his head. “Okay.” He said simply, and she sat back in her chair, eyebrows arching a little in surprise. John supposed, sipping his tea, this might have been the first conversation they’d ever had where he didn’t argue back. For once, they were in total agreement.

 

John was going to do things _properly_ with Paul. For the rest of the day, as Mimi got on with the mountains of paperwork and telephone calls it took to throw together a funeral, John wracked his brain for the stories he recalled Julia telling him about his own father, and their early days of courtship in the mid nineteen-thirties, before he set off for the sea. It had only been once or twice she’d let a few details slip after one too many glasses of Sherry when _Twitchy_ was out of earshot, but they’d stuck in his brain nonetheless.

 

 _Courtship_. That’s what most people knew it as. Nowadays, teenagers such as himself didn’t really bother to make the effort, more interested in a quick shag rather than settling down to marry as soon as they grew the right parts. But John remembered most of the basics, he’d read about it in books. For an Alpha, courting an Omega was no easy feat. The ritualistic process revolved around the idea that an Alpha had to prove himself worthy of the Omega’s attention, their _love_ \- and it wasn’t the sort of thing that could just happen overnight.

 

So, John was going to do this _properly_. He was going to _court_ Paul like it was nineteen-fucking-thirty-nine, just as his worthless dad had done for his mam before he fucked off and left them in the lurch, minus the actual fucking-off part.

 

And if _anyone_ had anything nasty to say about it? Well, John had never quite been able to resist a good brawl.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Rounding the corner into the red, gleaming gates of _Strawberry Fields_ , John felt his heart thudding in his chest as quick as the flap of a hummingbird’s wings. He stopped short up the pathway, fingers shaking as he fumbled for another cigarette out of his trouser pocket, failing to strike the match on the first three attempts before tossing the bastard thing out into the grass frustratedly. He huffed, slicking his hair back with the butt of his palm, hoping the curls on top had kept themselves tight. He’d half-entertained the idea of nicking one of Mimi’s pocket mirrors so that he could check it again once he’d left the house, but ultimately decided that that just might’ve been _too_ pathetic, even for someone as head over heels as himself.

 

He couldn’t help it. He was just _nervous_.

 

It was daft, really. Being _nervous_ to sit in the fucking field with Paul and spit-ball song lyrics around as they always did- but things had changed since the last time they were here together. Little longer than a month seemed life an entire lifetime ago now, before Julia, before _Paul_. Before anything _significant_ in his life had actually fucking occurred. _God_ , John snorted, finding a decent spot back by the trees to sit. _I used to think I had it so rough._

Nothing was the same now. John sat quietly underneath the biggest oak tree fifteen minutes before the actual time he was supposed to meet Paul here, freshly wrapped fish-and-chips hot against the material of his trousers, sweat making the material stick to his thighs. It had been a last-minute decision. One of the better chippies in their area just happened to be on his route, and as soon as he spotted it, John couldn’t fight the niggling, subconscious growl in the back of his brain, telling him he needed to _provide_ , show Paul he could _look after him_ , keeping him clothed and fed and satisfied in every way.

 

He wouldn’t tell Paul that, though. Thinking about it now, hand on his watch ticking just past five, it was actually quite fucking _embarrassing_ , and Paul would definitely think him daft if it looked to be anything other than a bag of chips between two mates.

 

Still. He wouldn’t open it until Paul arrived.

 

Twenty minutes passed before John finally stood up, cursing under his breath and looking over towards the exit with a mean squint, leaving the fish and chips half-cold and half-devoured in the grass when a familiar face skipped around the corner, smiling as casually as ever, one hand in his pocket and a ciggie tucked behind his ear.

 

“Going somewhere?” Paul asked, drainies his dad never let him buy tight around his shapely thighs and bomber jacket just a size or two too large, hair perfectly coiffed and acoustic guitar strapped to his back. For a few seconds, John was lost for words, pacing awkwardly as Paul came to a stop right in front of him, cherry tickling at his nose.

 

“I… I thought you weren’t coming.”

 

“Sorry,” Paul waved a hand dismissively, taking a seat in the grass and flicking one stray, jet-black strand of hair away from his eyes. He pulled the ciggie from behind his ear and tucked it between his lips, before slipping a hand in his pocket and producing a fresh book of matches. “I know I’m late, but I was rowing with dad.”

 

“Rowing?” John lowered himself back into the grass, crossing his legs and watching Paul smoke. _Fuck_ , his lips looked quite nice like that, wrapped around the butt of a cigarette. How could such a menial, every-day action be so alluring? John didn’t notice he was staring until Paul gave him a strange look, removing his fag so he could flick ash in the grass before continuing.

 

“Yeah. He wasn’t so happy with my behaviour, staying around yours, not phoning and that. Says now I’m an Omega I need to _think_ about what people might say and blah blah blah-”

 

“Oh, right.” John leant back against the tree, legs stretched out in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles. He hadn’t actually thought of that himself, but for once, he supposed the old man had a point. He couldn’t have Paul gaining a reputation around town, the teasing was already due be merciless. Being known as a male Omega hanging around a bunch of Alpha lads would be bad. Staying the night and scenting with them outside the confines of a relationship would be even worse.

 

John didn’t even want to think of how his scent smelt on Paul when he stumbled back into Forthlin road early that morning. Even the thought had his insides fluttering, so he reached for the lukewarm chips to distract himself.

 

“I suppose he’s ri-”

 

“-So, I told _him_ that I don’t actually give a toss what people think.” Paul cut him off with a flippant shrug, cigarette perched in the corner of his pretty mouth. “You’re my _mate_.”

 

John nearly choked on his chip at that, earning himself another odd look. Now that they were both presented lads, the word _mate_ could hold a very different weight. Mate didn’t just mean any old Tom, Dick or Harry you knocked about down the pub with anymore. Mate was something _real_ , and he repeated the word quietly to himself, once, twice, and then a third time- just loud enough for Paul to catch.

 

The Omega’s face shifted into a worried little frown.

 

“We _are_ still mates, aren’t we John?”

 

 _Mates_. **_Friends_** _. Say **something** , you prick._

 

“God, Yeah.” John nodded, maybe a little too eagerly- but he couldn’t have Paul thinking otherwise. He was supposed to be drawing him in _closer,_ not pulling away, for God’s sake. “Of course we are. Course.”

 

“Okay, good.” Paul laughed, shifting a little closer so he was at John’s side rather than just across from him, elbowing him playfully. “Stop acting all skittery then. You’re making me nervous.”

 

“Right, sorry mate. I’m just… tired.” John lied. “I, uh, fetched you tea from the chippy. Didn’t know if you’d eaten or not. Bit cold now mind you, but,” he waved a hand at the half-eaten bag, and Paul didn’t hesitate before diving in, snagging a chip and tossing it into his mouth with a cocksure grin.

 

“Ah, thanks Johnny! Missed my right to a hot meal when I left the house, I’m ravenous.”

 

“You’re always bloody ravenous.”

 

“I’m a growing boy!”

 

After the chips and a few more ciggies between them, Paul swung his guitar around to his lap and tickled out the opening bars of the melody they’d been playing around with. They were still a little unsure if they’d come up with it themselves, or if it was just a knock off of something else they’d heard before, but so far, prowling through every record shop in dreary Liverpool, they hadn’t found _In Spite of All the Danger_ , the working title for their first decent (in John’s opinion, anyway, as everything he’d ever written alone seemed crap in comparison to the stuff he wrote with Paul) original song.

 

It was easy to lose themselves in the music. John forgot all about _courting_ , about _Alpha & Omega_ and the rest of the shite when it was just him and Paul, playing guitar and eating chips. He was no longer a shy stuttering mess, and for the first time, things sort of started to feel _normal_ again.

_Mates_ , but like, not in the way that made John’s dick twitch in his too-tight-trousers. Mates who wrote songs and scribbled lyrics and devoured greasy chips. Paul didn’t bring up the scenting and John didn’t bring up the kiss. The day rolled on around them, settling into a warm evening, sky soaked in red and orange.

 

Eventually, Paul was the one to decide that they should call it a day. John didn’t mind- he’d have stayed out there all night if Paul wanted to, damning the consequences. But things weren’t that easy for Paul anymore.

 

“You can come back to mine.” John offered, but Paul shook his head, and it took a lot for him to ignore the sharp sting of potential rejection.

 

“I should get home. Y’know. Because of dad.” Paul said. _Because I’m an Omega. Because I shouldn’t be knocking about with you after dark or people might talk,_ he didn’t say. “But I’ll see you at practice tomorrow?”

 

“Yeah, practice.” John nodded. In all honesty, he’d forgotten all about the _band_ , for a little while. So much had been going on in the meantime, he’d hardly given _The Quarrymen_ a second thought. But the band was his and Paul’s baby, the only pup they’d ever be able to conceive, and the time to neglect it was hardly now. “What time?”

 

“Maybe four?” Paul suggested, guitar slung back over his shoulders, one of John’s ciggies between his lips. “After I get out of school I’ll nip home, grab me guitar, and head over to Pete’s?”

 

“You’re going back to _school_?” John spluttered. Paul frowned at him.

 

“Of course I am!” he laughed, like it was the most casual thing in the world. Paul, the only fucking male Omega on _Merseyside_ , ready to just waltz back into a hall packed out with sweaty, horny lads and fresh-faced Alphas on their first rut. As if he could hear these wicked thoughts from inside of John’s head, Paul rolled his eyes all prissy-like, “-look, I’ve only got a few weeks left before I finish for good anyway.”

 

“But what if anyone tries-”

 

“-I can look after meself, John.” Paul sighed, and, despite their circumstances, John was inclined to believe him. Paul wasn’t exactly the most strapping of lads, but he could hold himself in a scrap, and often, his sharp tongue was capable of far worse damage than any lad’s fists. But it wasn’t exactly the potential prejudice John was worrying about. It was actually quite the opposite. “I did just fine by myself before.”

 

“But things are different now, Paul.” John said, biting the inside of his cheek, hands stiff by his sides. Neither of them wanted to say it out loud, but the words were there, hanging in the air between them. “Maybe I should go with ya-”

 

“-what?” Paul laughed again, and even just a glimpse at that wicked smirk lit a fire in John’s belly. “To school? Don’t be daft John.” He moved closer as they began to trudge out of the field, knocking John’s shoulder with his arm, vanilla pastry carrying in the light breeze around them. “If anything happens, I’ll head home early, okay? Da’ called already and explained the situation.”

 

“but-”

 

“-I’ll be _fine_ , John.” He insisted, giving John a warning look, a silent snap; _drop it, now_. John supposed he understood. It must’ve been quite a confusing time for Paul. The last thing he probably needed was to have his judgement doubted any more than it already had been. “I’ll see you at practice anyway,” he said, and then his voice fell quiet, an awkward, silently little pause before he added “… you know, if you still want to come. I understand if… if it’s too soon.”

 

 _Too soon._ John nearly scoffed then and there, right in Paul’s face. Would there ever be a right time? He didn’t think so. It seemed as if forever, now, any time he so much as cracked a smile, the sharp sting of guilt and grief would soon follow. Things weren’t supposed to just _be okay_ again, not now, not ever.

 

But they would be, he supposed. If Paul could live through it, maybe he could too.

 

“Of course I’ll be there,” he shrugged it off as best he could, hoping Paul didn’t catch the strain in his voice. “It’s still my band. Can’t have you taking over.”

 

“Of course not.” Paul smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. John wondered if it would always be like this, from now on, people treading on eggshells around him. He wouldn’t be able to bare it much longer. “I suppose I’ll see you later then?”

 

Only then, did John notice, they had reached the end of the park, both stood before that giant, gleaming red gate. From here, it would be a quick hop over the top and then Paul would be off home towards the left, John towards the right.

 

John felt a slight tug in his gut as he watched Paul climb up first. Oddly enough, he wasn’t quite ready for them to go their separate ways. He still had a niggling doubt that Paul’s day at school the following day wouldn’t quite run as smoothly as he was hoping. In honesty, he didn’t think Paul should go _at all_ , but he was quite the stubborn prick when he wanted to be. Nothing John said would change his mind.

 

“Stop worrying,” Paul chided him again, and John frowned. What, had the prat actually learnt to read minds now, too? Was it just a secret power all Omega’s held, and never told anyone about? Maybe, like his mother in so many ways, Paul could just _read him_ , and that wouldn’t ever change. “I’ll be fine John.”

 

“Alright.” John shot him, what he hoped, was a reassuring smile through the iron bars, before pulling himself up and hopping over, stumbling onto the concrete. “You win. I’ll see you at practice?”

 

“See you at practice.” Paul nodded. John had half a mind to pull him closer, maybe drop a kiss of his own in Paul’s hair or on his face, just so there’d be something physical implied between them. However, he figured it might be better to wait. The last thing Paul probably needed after a row with his dad was to go home smelling of the same Alpha he despised.

 

“Bye Paul.” He said instead, sighing quietly as he watched the Omega’ retreating form, disappearing down the street.


	4. School Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John worries how Paul will survive his first day back at school. Afterwards, at band practice with The Quarrymen, he opens up to a close friend.

_Stop worrying_ , Paul had said, and John was still mentally kicking himself over his complete and utter lack of protest, barely twelve hours later. _I’ll be fine_.

 

But John did worry, of course. And he didn’t think that Paul would be _fine_.

 

John hadn’t been back to college since Julia’s passing. As the news had spread throughout the neighbourhood, he doubted they’d be knocking down his door anytime soon, demanding attendance. Stu had phoned the house once or twice, talking about some new theory they were working on that he was sure John would despise. He’d mentioned something about _that blonde girl,_ Cynthia, lovely Cyn, going round to all his classes and copying notes for him. It was supposed to be a reassuring sentiment, sure, but all John could feel was guilt sinking into his stomach. How was he supposed to break it off with her now? Things might’ve been a lot easier for him if she wasn’t so fucking _nice_ all the time!

 

So, for all these reasons and more, John carried on with his little break. Not going to college meant he had plenty of free time to mope and whinge and sleep, but by nine o’clock the morning after strawberry fields he was wide awake in his room, sun creeping through his curtains as he wondered just what exactly Paul would be facing on the first morning of the rest of his life, entering a school full of sweaty, disgusting lad, all bird-deprived and itching for some stimulation.

 

John just couldn’t help himself. The image of Paul, surrounded by a leering pack of piece-of-shit Alphas in the school corridor made his stomach turn. And John wasn’t excluding himself from that pack. He _was_ a piece-of-shit Alpha, up until very recent events. Therefore, he knew just exactly how a piece-of-shit Alpha could be.

 

It didn’t matter that Paul went to the fancy grammar school out of town rather than the low-rate comprehensive John had knocked around in during his own uniformed days, not too long ago. The weight of a grammar school wouldn’t protect him, because even some of the rougher Merseyside kids were clever enough to pass an entrance exam. John had only missed his own chance at getting in because he didn’t bother showing up. Certainly some prats just as prick-ish as he would’ve slipped through the cracks by mastering a few tricky equations.

 

The thought wouldn’t leave his mind all day- playing music didn’t help, nor did listening to the radio and scribbling a few doodles, or writing a winding, sappy poem about an anonymous dark haired, sweet-smelling beauty. John just couldn’t help but worry about the lad. With those blinking doe eyes and a soft scent like that… well… John knew that, in any of those other lad’s position, he wouldn’t be able to hold off making a pass himself for very long.

 

Well… not unless the kid had already been claimed by someone else.

 

Now _that_ was an idea. John cursed himself for not being more forward, asking Paul to scent with him again the day before. Fuck what _Jim McCartney_ might’ve thought about it. Even if it was mostly faded after a long sleep and after a good, hot bath, the faintest traces of Alpha could’ve clung to the tips of his hair, a quiet warning for anyone who made it too close.

 

But then, would that have scared him off? John didn’t want to come on _too_ strong. His friendship with Paul still held value over any attraction he may or may not have felt. They _needed_ each other. Omega or otherwise, because John didn’t see himself ever making it to the top without Paul by his side. The last thing he wanted to do was jeopardise that possibility by backing him into a corner before he was ready to even consider taking things between them to a new, frightening level.

 

Still, John supposed there  was a _little_ more he could do to make his intentions clear. As the clock on his wall crawled past three, John decided he was tired of the internal back-and-forth. Arguing with himself was pointless, so, on gut instinct; he made a decision that he felt held a happy medium ground between _bend him over the teacher’s desk in the classroom_ and _stay out of his way, let him fend for himself_. Creeping around Mimi’s prying eye, usually impossible to avoid unless she was particularly focused on something (in this case, funeral program designs, flowery and lavender, making him feel nauseous), he quietly fished the keys that she hid in the bottom of the fruit bowl, the keys that nobody touched, not anymore, not since Uncle George-

 

Mimi had never learned to drive, because driving wasn’t really something women round their town felt the need to do, apparently. In John’s experience, men drove and women stuck to the backseat. Now he thought about it, it had never really made much sense. Most of the blokes John knew lucky enough to have cars drove around like maniacs, often with disastrous consequences. Maybe if a woman had been behind the wheel that morning when Julia stepped into the road… well, John supposed there was no point dwelling over it now. Things had already happened. There was no going back.

 

Quietly, John wondered if Paul would ever learn to drive, now. Omega’s and cars, the two never really correlated, but John quite liked the mental image of Paul behind the wheel, legs spread lazily, eyes on the road behind mirrored sunglasses and one arm out of the window, like Elvis.

 

John took the keys from the fruit bowl and called a weak excuse about _going to see a mate_ , ignoring Mimi’s shouts of _don’t forget your glasses_ behind him. True, he couldn’t see for shit, and usually he would ignore her demands- but for once, he actually reckoned he might need them.

 

Uncle George’s car had sat in their dusty garage, unused and unloved for two long years. Mimi had promised it to him, as soon as he learned to drive of course, but John had never shown much interest in the idea until now. He didn’t need to drive- driving was _effort_ \- papers and glasses and money for petrol. John _knew_ how to drive, of course, Uncle George had taken him out around their quiet neighbourhood dozens of time as an unruly teen if only to get him out of the house for a few hours, keep him from getting under Mimi’s feet. It occurred to John only as he settled behind the wheel of the faded blue mini cooper that his interest in driving had waned more or less exactly right after George died. Without his uncle, there was no male role model for John to emulate, no other, elder Alpha to take him under his wing. Nobody else would bother teaching him, now.

 

It took a few minutes to get back in the swing of things, but his glasses kept the road from being a dangerous blur of unsuspecting pedestrians and hidden, lurking bollards. Soon enough it was _just like riding a bike_ , John trotting down the road at thirty miles an hour, making his way to _The Liverpool Institute,_ the fuddy-duddy grammar school Paul travelled forty minutes to and from every morning with George on the school bus.

 

He made it to the bin just around quitting time, the first dregs of knock-kneed school boys a few grades below Paul rushing out with their dark blue shorts stupid ties. For a moment, leant against the passenger door of the car with his leather jacket collar popped and his cigarette dangling between his lips like Elvis in that film he and Paul loved so much, John envied them. Such a simpler time, before bird and status’ and _making it big_. John wondered what Paul would’ve been like at that age. Long before he’d lost his mother, long before he’d taken over as homemaker in the McCartney house when Jim was out working. Maybe they’d have been friends.

 

John scoffed to himself. _Of course_ they would’ve been friends. He couldn’t envision a single version of reality where he and Paul remained apart for long.

 

A few anxiety-inducing minutes passed before John caught first sight of Paul, trailing out of the school with the hands in the pockets of his dowdy, loose-fitting trousers, that skinny mate of his with the fast fingers, George Harrison, right at his side, chatting about something or other. It didn’t surprise him that he could smell Paul, even from here, even when Paul hadn’t spotted _him_ yet, far on the other side of the fence, too lost in his conversation with George.

 

For a second, John wondered if he really was just being stupid. Remarkably, Paul seemed as happy as ever, nattering on about whatever it was with a spot of colour to his cheeks, probably a little hot under the thick material of his shirt and blazer. However, after a few quiet moments of observation, John noticed a shift happening around the two boys.

 

People were _looking_. Not the spotty little runts, running amok in the playground, smacking each other upside the head- they couldn’t tell at all, but some of the older boys, the ones in their final year… they were _looking_. And John didn’t like the way they were looking.

 

Not one _fucking_ bit.

 

Tapping his foot against the pavement, John wondered if it would look a little _too_ desperate to holler Paul’s name across the yard- just as a particularly strapping lad with the sprouts of a beard on his chin and actual, genuine _muscles_ rippling beneath his shirt sauntered up from behind. John didn’t even like the _lilt_ in his fucking step, the cockiness easing from his pores, nor the hungry look in his eyes as they zoned in on Paul from behind. John knew that fucking look. That was _his_ look. He knew _exactly_ what it meant.

 

Too far away to hear, John squinted as the Alpha opened his mouth to speak, pulling Paul back by the collar of his blazer, startling him out of whatever conversation he and George were having. John’s gut soured, and he cursed his fucking terrible eyesight. He had half a mind to fumble in the car for his glasses, just to catch whatever it was they were saying, before he decided whether to rip the cocky little lout’s throat right out.

 

Regardless of what was being said, John didn’t like the look of the kid, and had pretty much decided he was going to rip his throat out anyway just on principle, just for putting his hands on Paul at all, when he caught eyes with the other boy, scrappy little George Harrison, almighty _turban_ of a quiff gleaming under the summer sun, tie already loosened around his neck.

 

 _Hey look, it’s John_ , he must have said, pointing over at the car. John watched as Paul turned from the smirking, leering Alpha, expression relieved when he spotted John across the street. He gripped George by the tiny wrist and politely made his excuses, rushing over, clearly happy to be rid of such a chauvinistic prick.

 

He called something after Paul, something that made him stiffen, just for a second, but John was still too far away to hear.

 

“Hiya John,” Paul said, a little out of breath from his dash across the playground to the street. “What are you doing here?”

 

Taking a drag of his cigarette, John didn’t tear his gaze from the boy across the yard.  “I was around,” he shrugged, exhaling smoke before nodding toward the car. “Figured I’d… pick you up in the motor before practice.”

 

“But you don’t have a car.” George was eager to point out with a smirk. John glared at him.

 

“I borrowed it.” he bit back, but he was more watching for Paul’s reaction than George’s, hoping he sounded as cool out loud as he did in his head. Paul didn’t reply, just gave a short little nod, tossing his bag and his blazer through the open window and onto the backseat, brushing a little dust off the window. Doing so, he ended up a little closer to John, and with more eyes flying on them from across the playground, John finally acted on _instinct:_ he reached out and pulled Paul flush against his side, giving his hair a light sniff. Oh, he was _sure_ the other Alpha was watching then. Him and all his putrid, hormone-dependant mates.

 

It was barely _scenting_ , just a chaste sniff, hardly lasting a second or more, but Paul’s cheeks tinged pink and John couldn’t really hide his smirk. It was the perfect move, in hindsight. Public, yes, and possessive- sure, but not quite as inappropriate as _some_ of the things he was imaging doing to Paul on the way over. Things that weren’t _at all_ approved in the first days of a measly _courtship_.

 

“Steady on.” George did a poor job at disguising his laugh with a cough, but John supposed that was his intention.

 

“Shut it runt.” He snapped back, and George did as told. He was good like that. Sharp as anything, George could deliver a wickedly cool one-liner when he put his mind to it, but at the end of the day, John would always be the Alpha, to him, and he knew his place.

 

Plus, John was happy to note, George was probably the only boy who _wasn’t_ a threat when it came to him and Paul. John could remember meeting him on that rickety old bus only a few short months before, hardly impressed with the gaunt looking, unpresented little scrap until he tucked a guitar on his lap and let his hands do the talking.

 

And John couldn’t deny it. George was _bloody good_. Far better than him- maybe even better than _Paul_ , even if he lacked the same aroma of _virtuoso_. But he was still only eight stone dripping wet with a haircut bigger than his _cock_ , so John had only let him in the band (after _weeks_ of intense begging from Paul) on a probational basis. They were only just about getting away with playing the stricter bars and clubs with Paul stringing along (and only because he could charm the pants off any bouncer, Omega or otherwise) so there was no chance they’d make it in with George on their tail. So they didn’t take him to _every_ gig.

 

He wasn’t to be at their next one, and even though it was a little spiteful, John loved to remind him so.

 

“Well.” He flicked his fag out into the nearest gutter, rounding the car to open the passenger door, nodding for Paul to get in. “We should be off, ay Paulie? Band practice and all.”

 

“Yeah.” Paul smiled at him, (dare he say it, _flirtatiously?_ ) slipping under John’s arm and lingering in the doorway of the mini cooper, tearing his eyes from John just long enough to nod in his friend’s direction. “We can give George a lift though, can’t we? He only lives around the corner from me, remember?”

 

John had no intentions of taking George Harrison _anywhere_ , but with Paul blinking his fucking girly eyelashes like that… God, it would take a stronger man than he to deny.

 

“I suppose so,” he sighed, nodding for George to follow. The kid even had the cheek to grin, following a wry mumble of _thanks John_ , before clambering into the back, sitting just behind Paul.

 

“Just don’t fucking touch my radio,” he tutted, adjusting the rear view mirror before, reluctantly, slipping on his black frames (much to Paul’s amusement) “-or I’ll have your barnet for a mink purse.”

 

“You’d love that, you queer.”

 

John didn’t reply, stomach sinking as George smirked in the back seat. Not one of them spoke for rest of the journey to George’s house bar a muttered _goodbye_ , until finally, after twenty minutes of stony, unnerving silence, Paul and John were finally alone, chugging down the streets of Speke with less than a quarter tank of petrol.

 

“George is getting really good, you know,” Paul was rambling, eyes fixed out of the window as they made their way to Pete’s house, fingers dancing against the window. “It’s actually daft how good he is. You could practice ten hours a day, but it still wouldn’t matter. Some people just have it, you know.”

 

“You have it.”

 

“Not as good as George though. I can almost play Raunchy all the way through, now. Just as good as him, probably. Not that he would ever say. And I think-”

 

John began to tune out then. Paul carried on rambling about guitar solos, and John watched Paul instead of watching the road. It was far too difficult to focus on both at once, so he was thankful they’d even made it at all when Pete’s house came into sight, just a short while later.

 

Besides- how was he supposed to listen to Paul talk when seventy percent of his brain power was focusing on _not_ getting a fucking _hard-on_ at the smell of his scent mixed in with the mini cooper’s pale yellow seats, more than likely to linger for days following his departure?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Paul kept in close behind him, a comforting, if unconscious gesture when they headed into Pete Shotton’s Anderson, the prime spot for band practice, just far enough down the garden where Pete’s mum and dad wouldn’t complain about the racket, just near enough to nip inside for a piss or a tea when need be. It was more than a little cramped, stupidly dark if not for the oil lamps dotted around, and the only seating was one beaten up old table and chairs that Mr Shotton had threatened to use for firewood on more than one occasion and a broken settee, leather cracked and splintered across the expanse of the cushions.

 

But, nonetheless, it was a place of their own, to play music and smoke and laugh together.

 

Usually, Shotton’s Anderson was a place of comfort for John. He looked forwards to the hours spent within its dingy little tin walls, watching Paul boss about his gang of lazy, half-assed musician friends. This afternoon, however, his heart had sunk so low it was practically in his balls, heart hammering against his chest. Part of him wanted to reach out and take Paul’s hand in his as they entered the bomb shed, but he decided against it. His friends, for the most part, were a bunch of absolute _pricks_ and, initially, that’s why John had liked them so much. Now he was questioning his life choices, and the last thing he wanted was to give them any more ammunition.

 

“Lads.” He cleared his throat, catching them mid-conversation. Seconds later, Paul appeared in his shadow, meek and blinking, biting the inside of his cheek to hide his nerves. John winced as he watched the boys stiffen, three pairs of nostrils flaring, each catching a whiff of something sweet and new in the air. They never brought Omegas back to Shotton’s shack. The entire tiny room had been dripped in Alpha sweat and musk from the moment they pitched up. Paul’s fresh, wet cherry was like a bum note in the middle of a guitar solo.

 

Impossible not to notice.

 

“Paul…” Colin was the first to speak, sitting up slightly from where he’d been slouched at the edge of the table. “-you’re-”

 

“Yeah, he is.” John bit out, eager to nip any abuse in the bud before it had a chance to gain traction. He fixed the other three boys with his meanest glare, fists clenched at his side, mouth set into a hard, thin line. “And, if any of you have a problem with it, you take it up with me first. That clear?”

 

“John…” a little voice of protest came from behind him, but, for the first time, John ignored Paul. He kept his stare fixed on the other boys, dark and unwavering.

 

“That _clear_?” he repeated, and after a stretch of silence quiet enough to hear a plectrum hit the ground, the three glanced at each other, and then back to him, before giving quiet, shaky nods and a few hums in agreement.

 

“It’s clear, mate.” Pete- his best friend, his right-hand man up until Paul had come along to steal his spotlight, shortly followed by Stu- stood up from the table and smiled, hands tucked into the pockets of his red jacket, nodding for the two of them to come further into the room. “Glad to have you both back, aren’t we lads?”

 

“Course we are!”

 

“Welcome back, John and Paul!”

 

“Gear.” Colin smiled again, doing his best not to drool as Paul floated over to the group and took a seat just beside him. “Say, Paul, you haven’t figured out a better solo for that part in _Baby’s Corner-”_

 

Happy to just be included without protest, Paul whipped out his guitar and launched into a complicated, musical babble, answering the lad’s questions one by one, going over new parts and re-fixed melodies, different versions of different songs he’d heard on a new radio channel, lyrics and 8-bar tunes laid out on scraps of paper and taught with mind-boggling sophistication. To credit his little gang of teddy-boy-wannabe’s, nobody so much as batted an eyelid at the Omega-shaped elephant in the room, and, past the initial awkwardness, they fell back into the same old routine as before. Paul, the prissy, bossy little kid teaching them how to play and the rest of the lads- lazy, incompetent and filthy, doing their best to keep up with his brilliance.

 

They practiced together between swapped stories of birds with no gag reflex and drink prices rising in some of the local pubs for hours, until the combined body heat and cigarette smoke became a little bit much for John, almost dripping in his leather jacket (not that he’d be seen dead taking it off), and he stepped outside into the cool, night air to enjoy his ciggy rather than be choked by it. Seconds passed, and he’d barely caught the match before footsteps followed behind him, the tin door of the Anderson rattling shut.

 

Pete leaned against the shelter, and wordlessly, John offered him a cigarette.

 

“Sorry about Julia, mate.” Pete said quietly, striking his own match and inhaling into the flame.

 

“S’not your fault, Pete.” John replied, keeping his gazed fixed out over the dark garden, barely able to make out the shapes of Pete’s mum and dad, talking together in the kitchen, without his glasses. John just sighed, and smoke flowed out into the darkness around them. “She should’ve fucking looked where she was going.”

 

Awkwardly, Pete swallowed, eyes downcast. John supposed he wasn’t exactly provoking conversation. In truth, he hadn’t gone over the details of the accident yet with anyone, not even Mimi. The wound was too fresh. This time, as Pete picked at the scab, John felt his heart bleed.

 

“Yeah.” Pete said, coughing around his smoke like a child. “Did they catch him? the bastard driving?”

 

“Yeah, they got him.” John huffed a laugh. “But he’s a copper, so… he’ll probably walk. No harm done, ay? The fucking irony.”

 

“Bloody hell.”

 

“I know.” John clenched his jaw. He didn’t look back at Pete, but the small fist he made with his hand, cigarette poking through the gap between his index and middle finger made it very clear that the conversation regarding Julia was over.

 

“So…” Shotton said instead, leaning off the Anderson so he could stand in front of John, forcefully catching his eye. A slight smile lingered on his face as he asked, “…that Paul then.” And John sighed blissfully, resting his head back against the cool metal.

 

“I know,” he hummed, doing his best to wipe the smile off of his face. He couldn’t let Pete know just how smitten he was- or he’d never hear the end of it. He was still struggling to come to terms with the feelings himself, Julia’s mantra of _it’s only love_ whirling around and around and around in his head, making him feel queasy. “The ultra-rare male _Omega_ ,” he put on a silly voice, as if reading out an ancient Greek myth to a child. “The stuff of _legends_.”

 

Pete could only roll his eyes, taking another puff on his cigarette.

 

“You’re not gonna fuck him now he’s wet, are you John?”

 

His crude choice of words aside, the image of Paul, like that, ripped through John’s mind and his chest so viscerally, he visibly flinched before stiffening into a defensive pose, leering over Shotton, who was a few inches his subordinate, with a dark frown.

 

“Don’t talk about him like that.”

 

“Oh my God,” Pete seemed wholly indifferent to his posturing, and rolled his eyes again, before smirking. “You _are_ , aren’t you?”

 

“I’m warning you mate.” John’s voice dipped low as he stalked closer to Shotton, tossing his cigarette out into the garden without second thought, eyes hooded. “I’ll have nobody badmouthing him. if you wanna talk _rot_ , you’ve got to go through me first, understood?”

 

“Hold on…” Pete frowned, taking a step backwards, away from the light shove John gave to the centre his chest. “You’re not… wait… you’re not gonna like… _claim_ him? are you?” he spluttered a laugh. “Like a real fucking _boyfriend_?”

 

That was the last straw for John.  He grabbed Pete by the collar of his shirt and slammed him up against the Anderson, loud enough that he heard a break in Paul’s perfect playing, a moment of hesitancy and mumbles of _what was that_ \- before the music picked back up and the band continued to play.  

 

“I’ll sock you.” John snarled, reaching back with one fist to show Pete just how serious he was in accusation. “Don’t make me do something I’ll regret later.”

 

“Jesus John, relax.” Pete was unoffended by John’s belligerent behaviour. Likely because he’d seen it all before. Pete was an Alpha too, but John was the _pack_ leader. They’d squared up countless times before, both for fun and for real, to settle disputes and show off to birds. Pete knew exactly what John was capable of but was still flippant as ever upon his release, dusting off the shoulders of his jacket and fixing his hair without so much as a whimper.

 

“Boyfriend…” John sighed, stepping back. The posturing game was over, and for once, neither had won. His voice was a low mumble, regret fluttering in his stomach at his hastiness in poking Pete for a scrap, someone who was supposed to be his _mate_. “How dare you fuckin’ say something like that to me?” he huffed, but dropped the angry tone.

 

Pete smiled. “I’m not implying that you’re a queer John.” He said, patting him on the shoulder, bowing his head slightly in show of respect. That tickled John’s ego nicely, and he felt the adrenalin in his body calming slightly, rage visibly draining from his face. “I’d never do that. Look, mate… an Omega’s an Omega. Maybe ten years ago it would’ve mattered but not _now_. I just meant… well, it’s a little strange, isn’t it? Unexpected, like, cause it’s _Paul_. And what about Cynthia? She’s a good lass.”

 

 _Cynthia_. The name rung clear as a bell in John’s head. Only weeks ago, he’d been sat in that Anderson gushing to Pete and Paul and the rest of the lads about _Cynthia_ , the lovely little blonde from art college who’d finally let him up her skirt after weeks of considerable grafting.

 

Cynthia was perfect, really. She was pretty, sure, and blonde and curvy (just as he _thought_ he liked his partners to be) but she was more than just _good looking-_ she was actually dead clever too, with a great eye for art. She could draw and sing and was better than him in most things, which he wasn’t used to enjoying. Cyn kept John in line (most of the time) and in turn she rewarded him with sex and adoration. For John, she was the kind of woman he probably needed by his side if he was going to make it anywhere in life, because she fed the parts of him that had been starved the most for so many years.

 

But since Paul… well… John hadn’t really spoken to her at all. He’d hardly even thought of her, and even then, only in passing before Paul’s stupid, fluttering eyelashes distracted him. And that was certainly going to be quite the problem if their relationship was going to continue any further.

 

Cynthia was more than just _clever_. She was _sensible_ \- wise beyond her years, even. She was middle class, not northern scum like the rest of them, and older than him- if only by a year. This was what scared John the most about their relationship. Cynthia Powel was more than ready to sack school off and _settle down_ , get married, start a family. The whole nine yards.

 

And all John wanted was to be a rock and roll star. That, and _Paul_ at his side, and possibly in his _bed_.

 

“You want the truth?’ he asked Pete, even if he might’ve only just realised the _real_ truth himself.

‘Cyn is… she’s lovely, you know? She really fuckin’ is… and she’d made the perfect wife. But she isn’t… she’s not a _mate_. Not for life. She doesn’t… it sounds daft but… she doesn’t make my insides hot and my palms itch and my instincts go all… _haywire_ just at the sight of her.” John ruffled his own hair, as if the words were flying straight out of his head, rather than his mouth. He didn’t care if he fucked up his quiff. Pete stared at him like he’d grown a third fucking eye.

 

“…and… Paul does?” he asked. John sighed.

 

“Yeah. He really does. He drives me crazy by just standing there in the room fuckin’… blinkin’ at me that way he does.”

 

“Sounds like any good lad lusting over his first sure thing.”

 

John cringed. “I’ve had a thousand sure things,” he gave a dismissive wave. “This is different, Pete. Even…” he lowered his voice, suddenly more than aware that Paul and the other boys were only one thin tin wall away. Suddenly, John felt _shy-_ Pete’s baby blue eyes baring into his fucking soul. “Even before he presented.” John whispered. “I… I liked him, y’know.”

 

Almost _blushing_ , John had to look away. He could practically feel Pete’s eyes locked on his own, the frown burning in his face, the confusion that rolled before dawning realisation at just exactly what John had just confessed to.

 

“I thought… I dunno.” John continued rambling when faced with awkward silence, eager to redeem himself, even if he couldn’t quite find the words to express exactly how he felt. Perhaps, because no written words existed for the way his heart tugged whenever Paul had caught his eye when they wrote music, nose to nose, cooped up in one tiny bedroom after the other. _Music_. John thought. Maybe _that_ was the only way he’d be able to express how Paul made him feel, through _song_.

 

 “…I thought he looked like _Elvis_ , y’know?” he eventually spluttered. “I _like_ Elvis- _you_ like Elvis!”

 

“John.” Pete’s voice was steady as ever, and when he dared to look up, John was relieved to see a shocking lack of judgement in his eyes. “Nobody’s saying there’s anything wrong with… _liking Elvis._ I just… as your _mate_ , I just don’t wanna see ya ruin your chances of making it big by falling for some kid who also just happens to be the best instrumentalist any of us have ever seen. Relationships and stuff… that can really fuck up a band, you know.”

 

“I won’t let it.” John was adamant, and the confidence in his delivery surprised even himself. “This is a real thing, Pete. I… I think I might love him.”

 

Biting back a grin, Pete shook his head, and discarded his own ciggie, before clapping John on the back in a hearty, friendly kind of way. “There’s no changing your mind, is there?” he asked.

 

John shook his head.

 

“Best of luck then,” Pete shrugged. To John’s honest relief, he couldn’t have looked more unbothered if he tried. Then, a dirty smirk spread across his best mate’s face. “I look forwards to you and McCartney’s queer little wedding.”

 

“ _Oi!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> love love love x 1000 to everyone reading and commenting and whatnot. The next chapter will be the end of this story- but don't panic! There is plenty more to follow in this particular j x p universe. Enjoy the fifties whilst they're here. The sixties will be even better, just you wait :)


	5. Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After band practice, John walks Paul home, and everything in their world changes.

Around eleven, Pete’s mum finally made her way down the garden in her dressing gown and slippers and lovingly told the lads to _clear off_ back to their own homes and families. John didn’t miss the way she stopped, briefly in shock when her eyes fell on Paul, noticing the change in him just as quickly as the rest had. When each boy left the Anderson shelter, giving a polite goodbye, her lips lingered on Paul’s cheek just a second longer than the rest, and she squeezed his arm gently. Whatever it meant, Paul seemed to understand, holding eye contact with her for a few seconds, before nodding in thanks.

 

Then, they were all splitting off in separate directions, wandering home in the dark night. John took it upon himself to walk Paul home, so they wandered through Liverpool together, despite Paul’s constant protests that he would be _fine_ , and John didn’t have to _bother_.

 

 _Of course I have to bother_. John thought, but kept his mouth shut, for the most part. _This is the way things go now. I watch out for you, always._

 

Still, fifteen minutes in to their journey home, Paul was still trying to persuade him otherwise, red light of his cigarette burning between his fingers.

 

“You can’t just walk the streets at night on your own, Paul.” John huffed. Paul scrunched up his nose in petty protest.

 

“Says who?”

 

“Says me! No chance, not… looking and smelling the way you do,” he teased, bumping his arm against Paul’s as they fell into rhythm down the road, not even bothering with the pavement. There were no cars, not on these suburban streets, not at this time of night. John didn’t think there was anywhere safer for Paul than a silent street, an Alpha at his side. “If I didn’t make sure you got home in one piece your da’ would murder me.” he ignored Paul’s scoff, before adding: “-that is, if Mimi didn’t get to us first!”

 

“Glad to know she cares.” Paul grinned, smug as ever and happy to absorb whatever unintentional complements inevitably ended up slung his way.

 

“Yeah, well, she quite likes ya. Fuck knows why.”

 

“ _Oi!_ ”

 

“Kidding.” John shot him a spastic face and tried not to bristle with fucking _glee_ at the little giggle Paul let off in return. They reached the corner of the street together, and Paul stilled, hands tucking into his pockets.

 

“I really am fine you know.” He said. “I don’t want ya to go out of your way. We can split up right here-”

 

“-Love.” John groaned teasingly, giving Paul a light shove towards the left side of the street as if to say, _keep walking_ , barely a few steps behind. “I’m sure you’ve probably got _hundreds_ of admirers around these parts by now. I’ll be damned if any of them think they have a chance at scoring tonight.”

 

Paul held his eye and did his best to look exasperated by John’s insistence, but, for just a second, his mask slipped. John could see the gratitude, sparkling in his gaze. And he didn’t care how old fashioned it was. He liked the way it made him feel; the idea of _him_ being Paul’s protector.

 

They continued their walk in an amicable silence, but John spent the entire time far from content in the quiet, wracking his brain for _something_ to say. This was the hard part now, trying to make conversation. Before, when he’d fancied Paul a little, but ultimately knew nothing could come of it, it was easy to just satisfy him with the usual patter he used on any mate. Now, as he was so constantly being reminded, things were very _different_.

 

 _Say something,_ a voice screamed from within. _Fucking say something you bloody worthless, soppy pri-_

 

“How are you then?”

 

“Huh?” John spluttered. He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts, pounding around the inside of his head for something to say, he hadn’t actually considered the very likely possibility of Paul being the one to speak first. “Me?”

 

“Yeah, you.” Paul’s smile was teasing, but his eyes were not. His eyes were big and round, shining in the light of the moon. Paul’s eyes, and his smile- now John thought about it- looked sad. “You know… with Julia and all of that. Just wanted to know how you are, how you _really are_ , don’t just say _fine_ -”

 

“Oh, right.” John’s heart stuttered. “I… I don’t know. Sometimes, like now, I really am _alright,_ you know. I’m not just saying that. But sometimes it’s all I can think about. For now, I guess I’m just… not _fine,_ maybe. Just getting on with it.”

 

“After the funeral, that’s when the pain’ll start to… dull. Fade away, almost. You won’t forget it but… you won’t feel it burning like so all the time.”

 

Ignorantly so, John had forgotten for a while that, more than anyone, Paul knew exactly what he was bloody talking about.

 

“Still trying to get to grips with the idea of it, meself.” He admitted. “My _mums_ funeral. What a load of _shite_.”

 

“I know.”

 

“How are you, anyway?” John might not have been the best singer, or guitar player, or artist or writer- but if there was ever a skill he couldn’t be beaten at, it had to be deflection. Even with Paul, he didn’t want to talk about Julia. Not yet.

 

“Me?” Paul response, incredulously. “It’s been years John. I’m over it now.”

 

“Not your mam, Paul. You know…” he gesticulated vaguely, unsure exactly how to broach the sensitive issue. “Your… _change_.”

 

“Oh.” Even in the dark, John could see the way Paul’s cheeks tickled pink.

 

“I didn’t think to ask, before.” John confessed, hanging his head slightly. It was something he’d been beating himself with, the guilt pulling at his gut for days and days. “I was a little… all over the place, I guess.”

 

“For bloody good reason.”

 

“Still,” John swallowed. “you’re still… we’re still _mates_. I should’ve asked how you were. Must be a right headfuck.”

 

“It is.” Paul didn’t laugh. He didn’t even crack a smile, toeing someone else’s abandoned cigarette in the road, hands burrowed in the pocket of his trousers, head down. “I might be… finding it a little more tricky than I previously thought I would.”

 

“How so?”

 

Paul lifted his head then, turning to meet John’s eye with a weak, tired smile. “Oh, y’know. The Omega shit I can deal with, I knew it’d be me or Mike, I prepared for that. I can deal with the _heats_ and my body feeling _different_ and wanting to… _submit_ or the hell it is people think we do. All of that crap’s fine, you expect it, y’know. It’s just little things that didn’t occur to me before.”

 

“Little things like what?”

 

“Little things like… not being able to walk home on my own at night. Alphas thinking they can leer at me across the street. Lads looking at me in general- looking at me like they want to… you know… it’s a lot to wrap your head around if you never considered it before. The idea of being around a big group of lads still makes me nervous.”

 

“I’ll have a word, you know.” John offered with unabashed sincerity, nodding his head vaguely back in the direction of Pete’s. “With the band. If they’re making you feel-”

 

“-The band’s fine, John.” Paul interrupted. “I appreciate it, really, I do- but at the moment the band seems to be the only thing that hasn’t changed. You and the lads don’t gawp at me like men on the street do.” He smirked. “You scummy lot actually restore my faith in humanity, just a little bit.”

 

“Good.” John nodded, just as they turned down the road that would lead them into Paul’s little street. His chest swelled with pride, knowing that he wasn’t one of the worthless assholes who made Paul’s day just that little bit harder. He bit back a snarl at the memory of the stupid grammar-school Alpha _sprog_ , tugging at the back of Paul’s shirt, just earlier that day. Just how much of that _did_ Paul have to tolerate? He’d rip the throat out of anyone who so much as looked at him funny, if it made Paul feel more comfortable. “I promise, Paul.” He said, breathing deeply to steady his shaking hands, calming his screaming instincts. “I’ll never… as long as I’m living and breathing- I’ll never let _anyone_ lay their filthy hands on ya.”

 

Paul quirked one of his perfect, jet black eyebrows. “Not anyone?” he asked.

 

John shook his head. “Nobody. Never. Not unless it’s over my dead fuckin’ body, anyroad.”

 

“ _John_ ,” Paul sighed, but, surprisingly, it wasn’t in that grateful, lilting; _John, I can take care of meself_ , kind of way John was expecting. Paul’s skin looked hot, his blush more prominent than ever as they took a left into Forthlin road. Inside his jacket pockets, John could make out Paul’s little hands, balled into tense fists.

 

“What?”

 

“Just…” Paul’s nose wrinkled again. “It’s nice of ya and all but… well… someone’s gonna have a go eventually. I have got _needs_ and stuff.”

 

“ _Needs?!”_

 

Paul stopped dead in the street, two or so doors from his own house, and fixed John a _look_. John swallowed.

 

“Oh. Needs.”

 

“Yeah. So, unless…” he trailed off, looking away, eyes focused on his own front door. Paul didn’t realise how close beside him John watched until he’d stopped walking, and now, they could feel each other’s body heat.

 

“…unless?” John prompted him to finish. Paul’s blush darkened, eyes fixed on the floor.

 

“No, it’s nothing.”

_“Paul.”_

 

“I’m being _daft_ ”

 

“Spit it out!”

 

“Unless you wanted to _help_.” and it was so quiet, more a murmur than anything else, John almost didn’t catch it at all.

 

Almost.

 

“…y’know. With that side of things.”

 

Following this, there was a brief pause that, in John’s head, stretched on for hours. He and Paul stood opposite each other in the empty, silent street outside the McCartney family home, one foot in the driveway, one on the pavement. Hands fidgeted awkwardly in pockets, wind whistled around them. It was almost eerie, how quiet one residential street could feel when the person you desired most in the world dropped a bombshell like _that_ without even blinking.

 

“Paul…” John breathed, and Paul blinked at him. It was almost a silent challenge, a silent call of; _go on then, say no_. John wished his mind was working rationally enough to just say no and leave it at that. “Paul.” He almost laughed. “I’d jump into bed with you right this second if you asked-”

 

“-well, come on then.” Paul grabbed him by the hand, and, for a few blissful seconds John found himself literally being led up the garden path towards the front door before stupid _morals_ and _logic_ finally kicked in, and his feet planted themselves firmly to the ground, and Paul’s step stuttered.

_Do this properly, John_. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Mimi’s began to call from within his head. _And, would it kill ya to wear your glasses?_

Paul gave another feeble tug, and John gritted his teeth, using the last strain of will power he had to let go of his hand. “But-” he started, and Paul froze in step, turning to face John with a short, sharp sigh.

 

“-here we go.” he looked away. “But _what_ , John-”

 

“But- but,” John stuttered. For a second, he forgot all about his so-called morals. Looking at Paul standing there, pouting in the moonlight like a fussy child, he couldn’t think of a single reason not to fulfil his request. “ _But,_ ” he eventually said. “We’re mates. _Friends-_ ”

 

“-and you don’t see me that way because I’m a lad.” Paul said, flippant and steady as ever, but the tooth snagging at his lip and the hunch in his shoulders told a very different story. “I get it.”

 

“No, I-”

 

“-it’s fine John. I understand. I wouldn’t want to-”

 

“ _Christ_ , let me finish.” John snapped, and Paul froze. Only then did John notice the smell in the air. Paul practically oozed fear and nerves, something akin to burnt pastry tinged the air around them. John supposed that maybe, for Paul, this was the first time since presenting that an Alpha had put him right in his place. “We’re _friends_ ,” he said, softening his tone and reaching out to hold Paul’s shoulder, rubbing lightly with the pad of his thumb, hoping to comfort him a little. “Right?” he rubbed a little harder, slowly coaxing Paul’s eye back to his.

 

“Yeah.” Paul said quietly, holding his gaze but still almost shaking, hands quivering at his sides. “Of course we are John.”

 

“ _So_ ,” John continued, feeling the slightest hint of a blush touch his cheeks, nervous sweat gathering under the collar of his shirt and the heavy leather of his jacket. “As your _friend_ , I… I respect ya. I respect ya way too much to just…” Paul’s eyes refused to waver from his, and suddenly, John felt _very_ hot, trapped in Paul’s gaze. He pressed his lips into a thin line and swallowed thickly. “Just… _do_ ya here and now and… maybe a couple more times afterwards,” he licked his lips, distracted briefly by the way Paul finally blinked, leaning back slightly in shock before a smile teased his lips. “What I mean is… I wouldn’t want that to just _be it_. I have thought of it- of course I have, even before…” he trailed off. Paul leant in, eager for him to continue, but, try as he might- John just couldn’t quite bring himself to say the words.

 

He didn’t have to.

 

“Before I… _presented_?”

 

“Once or twice maybe,” John winced. “I’m sorry… I just- look, I _liked_ ya, alright.” He admitted, hands falling back to his sides at safe distance, taking a step back from Paul and pulling at his hair in distress. So _this_ was where they were now? Two boys standing outside Paul’s house, one spilling his guts all over the front garden, out in the open where anyone could see whilst the other just _blinked_ , in shock and possible disgust. _Fuck,_ John needed a cigarette, or _something_ \- but he wasn’t sure if Paul would be able to look him in the eyes after this, let alone bum him a fag.

 

Nonetheless, at the same time, John knew for certain that he wasn’t going to be able to keep it all inside any longer. They’d gone too far to even consider turning back.

 

“Is that what you want to hear?” he snapped, annoyed more at himself than Paul, for letting things get this far at all. “You… at the fete, you looked like fuckin’ _Elvis_ and I bloody fancied the drainies off ya and I still do. So if that makes me a queer or whatever then _fine_. I’d fuckin’ have you right here in the road where the whole world could see that you’re mine if I didn’t actually _like_ you so much that I wanted to just for once do this _proper_ , like.”

 

A tiny frown tugged at Paul’s brow. Aside from this, the mask was firmly in place, and he seemed little more than indifferent at John’s rambling confession.

 

“Proper?” he asked. John wanted to scream. Of all the things to pick out, Paul had to go for _that_. He had to just weed out the one part John was possibly _most_ embarrassed about, and this time, his blush wasn’t a faint pink, it was bright, screaming scarlet.

 

“Proper, yeah!” He exclaimed. “You know- take you out… fuckin’ provide for ya, show me worth. All that shite.”

 

Paul blinked again. John hated himself for finding something as stupid as a _blink_ so fucking attractive. Paul just did that to him. Made stupid, meaningless things _sexy._ John supposed anything could be sexy when your eyelashes fluttered like that.

 

“Wait,” his nose wrinkled and John almost _moaned_. Now, there was a gorgeous smile tugging at the corners of Paul’s mouth, vaguely smug, the _bastard_. “You wanted to… _court_ me, like?”

 

“Well…” John mumbled. “Sort of, like. _Yeah_.” He nodded awkwardly. For a second, he thought his heart might’ve actually _stopped_ in anticipation of Paul’s reaction. When a quiet laugh followed, sadly, he realised that he _hadn’t_ died and ended up in some kind of anticipation-based hell-space as punishment for his many, many misdeeds.

 

“ _John_ ,” Paul sighed, quiet and adoring. Which was odd. This was the point, surely, where he was socked in the nose and sent home for ice wrapped in a flannel and a fitful sleep. He’d just told a _lad_ that he fancied him. it didn’t matter that Paul was an Omega now. He hadn’t been _anything_ , not _then_ , but John had liked him all along anyway, even though he _knew_ how wrong it was and refused to admit it to himself. But Paul wasn’t punching him in the face. He was sort of just _standing there_ , smiling.

 

“ _John_.” He repeated. “Is this… is this why you bloody bought me _chips_ and fuckin’… showed up at school? Glared down Pete and the lads? You’re…” he grinned- fucking _grinned_ \- John could’ve throttled him if he didn’t adore his stupid face so much. “… you’re _proving_ that you’re worth being my Alpha?”

 

“Don’t bloody _laugh_!”

 

“I can’t help it.” Paul giggled. John fumed, embarrassment practically _streaming_ from his pores.

 

“You think I’m a _sap-_ ”

 

“-A little, yeah.” Paul tilted his head to the side, folding his arms over his chest. He stopped laughing, but the pout and the bit-back smile told a story all of its own. “But you’re a lovely sap, John. You don’t need to do all that, you know. You’re already my favourite Alpha in the world. And even before I presented I think… I don’t know. Maybe I knew I’d be an Omega or maybe… I don’t know. But… I always thought about me and you, and you…” he trailed off, avoiding John’s eye with a coy smile. “… _having_ me… like that.” He moved closer, practically _floated_ over in John’s direction, reaching out with intentions unclear, perhaps even to himself. His hand shook slightly in the space between them before, eventually, he stroked his fingers across the material of John’s shirt, brushing his stomach just slightly. John felt his belly flutter, skin tingling at even the implication of Paul’s whispered words, head spinning at the multitude of possibilities.

 

“Having ya.” John _breathed_ in his words, reaching out to catch Paul’s wrist when he tried to move away. “Paul… I’d do more than just _have_ ya. I’d want it to be special. I wanna show ya that I’m the only Alpha worth ya time, I… fuck Paul.” He squeezed his hand tightly, pulling Paul’s touch higher, towards his chest. “I think I might love ya.”

 

At this, Paul stiffened.

 

“John-”

 

“-you don’t have to say it back.” John dropped his hand quickly, as if he’d been burnt by a hot pan, only just noticing how clammy his palms felt. _Okay John, slow down_. He chided himself. _Don’t scare the kid off just yet._ “I just want you to know that it’s true and I _mean_ it. and I’ll keep on proving it ‘till you believe me.”

 

“Come inside.” Paul whispered, reaching out and pulling him again, fixing him a heated look that reminded John of a tempting siren at sea, luring unknown sailors to their sudden death. “We can be quiet-”

 

John bit his lip, considering it again- five or six or seven times before the inevitable compass of _morality_ took over, and he shook his head from side to side, _no_.

 

“I can’t. It’d be wrong, you know. But… if you want I- I’ll take you out? This Saturday maybe? A real date, like, with flowers and everything.” He smiled, before adding: “Then I can have me way with you _and_ keep my sacred values intact.”

 

“You make it sound so romantic.” Paul dropped the sultry act and softened considerably, rolling his eyes with a quiet laugh, their hands still interlinked, soft skin draping over his.

 

“It will be, love.” John promised, and beyond joking around, he squeezed Paul’s hand and hoped that he would understand just how strongly he truly felt. “I’ll take good care of ya too- and not just, y’know, _like that_. I’d do anything for ya. I’d knock down anyone who got in your way.”

 

“ _Our_ way.” Paul insisted, sidling up close to him until they were almost chest to chest. “We’ll still do the band, wont we Johnny? Make it to the top, an’ all?”

 

“Of course we will! Me, you, little Georgie and the others if they can be bothered to stick around long enough. Toppermost of the _poppermost_ , like I always say.”

 

At the familiar chant, Paul’s quiet little smile spread into a full-fledged _grin,_ teeth shining. Then, finally, he nodded his head in agreement.

 

“Alright,” he said. “Fine. Saturday it is. Just… will you do one thing for me first?”

 

“Anything.” John replied. Paul’s smile turned from amusement to something _deeper_. The eyes he flashed at John were staggering in their ability to throw him. God, John recognised that look. He’d seen Paul flash it at birds across the dance floor countless times. He’d just never imagined in a thousand, million years that he would be on the receiving end of such lethal _bedroom eyes_.

 

“Kiss me.” Paul said, and John nearly collapsed.

 

“ _Paul-_ ”

 

“C’mon,” Paul leant in closer, smirk curling delightfully as his hands reached up John’s chest to his shoulders, before snaking around his back, pressing them chest to chest. “Where does it say in the patron saint _Lennon’s_ book of _courting_ that a cheeky snog before a first date is prohibited?”

 

From the moment Paul’s skin touched his, John knew for sure that he was a goner. No red-blooded male would ever be able to resist an Omega like _this_ , wrapped all around him, so close that their scents swirled into one clouded mix, John’s heart hammering in his chest. In fact, John doubted he could find a human being on this _Earth_ , queer or otherwise, who’d be able to resist _Paul McCartney._

 “Alright, fine,” he laughed, holding Paul’s eye as their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling. “I’ll just tell the church that you wore me down with your wicked, sinful methods of seduction.”

 

“Fine by me.” Paul replied, and then they were kissing- the soft, plump pout John had been seeing in his dreams for months was finally pressed against his own, and he was happy to note that Paul’s lips were just as warm and inviting- if not more so- than he’d dreamt. There was no initial first-kiss awkwardness. From the moment Paul’s lips brushed over his own, everything became very clear, even without his glasses. John mentally kicked himself for being so fucking apprehensive in the first place. How could _this_ ever be wrong? He and Paul were born to fit together.

 

Despite this, John used every inch of will power he possessed to keep the kiss as chaste as possible, mouths closed, _no_ tongue. After a few seconds, he pulled away, but Paul was to have none of it, chasing his touch unconsciously, drawing John back in to him. From there, all bets were off. John let Paul coax his mouth open and didn’t flinch when he felt a pink tongue slipping against his and one hand moving from behind his shoulder and up to his face. Paul touched him like a man starved, unable to part from John even for a chance at _breath_. John was certain he’d never been kissed like this before in his life, and, beyond Paul, he never would be.

 

They kissed and they kissed and they kissed until one lonely car driving passed bibbed, startling them both. John laughed nervously, like a blushing, stuttering bird being kissed for the first time at the bus stop. Paul’s arms were still wrapped around him, and John saw no reason to unwind himself from their embrace. Now he’d gotten a taste, he would’ve been more than happy to remain there in Paul’s arms forever.

 

However, he looked at his watch over Paul’s shoulder and noticed the time. Mimi would likely kill him if he stayed out any longer.

 

Looking at Paul, though, he supposed he had a good bloody reason for being late.

 

“I have to go.” he said, leaning in for one last kiss before brushing his lips across Paul’s forehead, nose tickling his hair and head getting a happy little rush from the sweet, but powerful scent. Paul gave a tiny whimper in protest and the sound alone was enough to blast John with the sudden, primitive urge to haul him over his shoulder like a sack of flour and drag him home where he could ravish him properly.

 

 _Self control, John,_ Mimi’s voice lectured him again. _Don’t do anything you might regret come morning._

 

With a final sigh, John forced himself to step back, fixing Paul with a bright smile and a cheeky wink.

 

“You should get to bed, Paulie. I’ll see you later.” He said.

 

Paul tucked his hands into his pockets and looked away, skin flushed, smile daring.

 

“Yeah, I think you will.” He flirted, catching John’s eye again. “Night, _Alpha_.”

 

John didn’t move until Paul had slipped into the tiny house with the little red door, grinning as he watched _his_ Omega walk away. Okay. It was confirmed now:

 

John was _definitely_ in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end, or, at least, for this little chapter of John and Paul's story. The story itself is certainly not over. There is so much more to explore.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to all for reading / kudos-ing / commenting. I hope you stick around for the further adventures of John-and-Paul.


	6. a/n

 

 

Just a quick note to say hi! and THANKS!

 

Seriously. Thanks x 10000 for all the interest in my daft little story. This is just a note to say hi and thanks and also to let you know that this series is continuing in a series-form. The series is now linked to this story, and I'd love if you decide to follow on John-and-Paul's adventure in the next installment, titled "Julia".

 

:) PAPERSK1N 


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